Little Vampire Women (11 page)

B
eth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone expected. The antidote did not work. Baffled, Gentleman Jackson made another batch, then another and another, taking extra care each time to measure out the ingredients in case a minuscule amount made the difference. He took blood first from Beth’s arm, then from her leg, then chest, toe, and ear. It didn’t matter what he did. Beth grew worse and worse.

Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings or their children, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Beth’s illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah
wouldn’t hear of “Mrs. March bein’ told, and worried just for such a trifle.”

Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. One afternoon, late in the day, when Jo was napping coffin-side, she woke to find Beth’s nose a few inches from her own, her eyes wide and kindling with hatred, a pencil gripped tightly in her grasp as she pressed it against her beloved sister’s heart.

“Beast,” she growled. “Abomination.”

Then Jo grew frightened, even though she easily wrested the paltry weapon from the poor invalid’s hand. Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she “would think of it, though there was no danger yet.” A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while.

How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death
hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that Margaret, lying unsleeping in her casket, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy—in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth’s nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth’s unselfish ambition to live for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty. Often, she thanked God that she hadn’t slaughtered that family in the carriage, for how could she sit by Beth’s side with that hideous sin on her soul? And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome compared with the onerous-ness of protecting annoying Aunt March, who ordered her about like a servant and jumped at every creak of a floorboard, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who had turned him into an invincible being.

Meanwhile Beth lay in her coffin with old Joanna at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protégé. She longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest she eat them by mistake, for although she thought herself human, the desire to consume the innocent felines was unbearable. She raged at Jo for holding her prisoner in a house of horrors, and tried to cut Hannah’s head off with a letter opener. Soon even these intervals of crazed consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Gentleman Jackson came twice a night, Hannah sat up during the day, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth’s side.

The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death. When Gentleman Jackson came an hour before dawn, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, “If Mrs. March can leave her husband, she’d better be sent for.”

Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a
minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly, “What is it? Is Beth worse?”

“I’ve sent for Mother,” said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragic expression.

“Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?” asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook.

“No. Gentleman Jackson told us to.”

“Oh, Jo, it’s not so bad as that?” cried Laurie, with a startled face.

“Yes, it is. She doesn’t know us, she doesn’t even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She doesn’t look like my Beth, and there’s nobody to help us bear it. Mother and Father both gone, and God seems so far away I can’t find Him.”

As the bloody tears streamed fast down poor Jo’s cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat, “I’m here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!”

She could not speak, but she did “hold on,” and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.

Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she calmed down, and looked up with a grateful face.

“Thank you, Teddy, I’m better now. I don’t feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it comes.”

“Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and then everything will be all right.”

“I’m so glad Father is better. Now she won’t feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders,” sighed Jo.

“I know something that will make your burden lighter,” said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at something.

“What is it?” cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.

“I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke
answered she’d come at once, and she’ll be here tonight, and everything will be all right. Aren’t you glad I did it?”

Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth. Jo’s eyes grew quite red as she flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, “Oh, Laurie! Oh, Mother! I am so glad!” She did not sob again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news.

Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind. He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying, “Oh, don’t! I didn’t mean to, it was dreadful of me, but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn’t help flying at you. Tell me all about it.”

“I don’t mind,” laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. “Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know. She’d never forgive us if Beth…Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got Grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office yesterday. Your mother
will come, I know, and the late train is in at two
A.M
. I shall go for her, and you’ve only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here.”

“Laurie, you’re an angel! How shall I ever thank you?”

“Fly at me again. I rather liked it,” said Laurie, looking mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.

“No, thank you. I’ll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don’t tease, but go home and rest, for you’ll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!”

Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser and told the assembled cats that she was “happy, oh, so happy!” while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of it.

“That’s the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do hope Mrs. March is coming right away,” said Hannah, with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news.

Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set the sickroom in order, and Hannah “brewed up a couple of jugs of bloods in case of company unexpected.” A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better than moonlight brightened the quiet rooms. Everything
appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth’s bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy’s bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, “Mother’s coming, dear! Mother’s coming!” Everyone rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight, the once white face so rosy and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter “Water!” piteously, as if the insipid liquid could do anything to slake her thirst, and repelling all attempts to feed her blood. All day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the coffin, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. Gentleman Jackson came in at midnight and took one look at the patient and shook his head sadly, indicating without a word how hopeless the case was. He’d read every book, tried every experiment, used every resource at his disposal, but he simply didn’t have a cure for
Beth’s vampire fever. Why the antidote worked on Mr. March, he didn’t know, and the fact of that one success tortured him. For a moment, he’d thought he’d made a scientific breakthrough, but all he’d created was an anomaly.

Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the coffin’s foot and fell fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March’s countenance as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.

The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. The clock struck one. Weary Hannah slept on, as Meg and Jo watched Beth silently, waiting for the end. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie’s quiet departure for the station. Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the girls.

It was past four, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the coffin, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother’s easy chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, “Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me.”

Awakened by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the coffin, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and, then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, “It won’t be long now. It won’t be long now.”

Jo was back at her post in an instant, prepared at any moment to say good-bye to her darling girl.

All three were so intent on their grief and misery that they didn’t hear the carriage arrive or Laurie’s shout or the hurried footsteps on the stairs or even the door to the room open. But they all saw Marmee’s beautiful face, sharply drawn with tension, as she ran to her beloved daughter’s side and they all saw her extract a small vial from her bag.

“Antidote, my dears,” she said. “Antidote that will surely save her.” And she spoke with such simple confidence that nobody in the room could disbelieve her. Jo felt the relief through her entire body and sank to her knees to give thanks that Marmee was home.

W
hen Beth woke from that long nightmare, the first object on which her eyes fell was her mother’s face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep.

Hannah warmed cow’s blood for the traveler, who whispered her account of Father’s state, Mr. Brooke’s promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable anxiety that she might arrive too late to save her.

“How did you know the antidote would work?” Meg asked.

“I didn’t,” Marmee said, “but I prayed and hoped that it would, for it wrought miracles with your father. The two formulas were identical, except for the blood used, and that struck me as a difference of some importance. Something about your father’s blood made the antidote work for him, and although I know nothing about the science, it seemed reasonable to me that as the patriarch of the line, and Beth’s sire, that his blood might save her, too. And now Beth is resting quietly. I’ve always told you girls that your father is a special man and this surely proves it.”

The girls acquiesced with silent nods and looked again at their dear Beth, sleeping naturally once again in her casket. Oh, what a cherished and beautiful sight it was to see her pale and healthy again. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave Beth’s side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure.

Laurie meanwhile posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well that Aunt March actually “sniffed” herself, and never once said “I told you so.” Amy’s relief was palpable, as was her desire to rush off and see her mother, but she knew her duty was to stay with Aunt March until the villain who had poisoned Beth and her father was apprehended and she dully retrained
herself. Laurie, who was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, rested on the sofa, while Amy wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it, and when she returned, he was stretched out with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.

After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up till morning, and I’m not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by Amy’s cry of joy at the sight of her mother. There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city that night, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her mother’s lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses.

In due time, Marmee took off again, promising Amy that she could come home soon, but the girl was so distraught at the thought of not seeing her sister immediately, Laurie volunteered to stand guard over the old lady. Aunt March rejected out of hand the idea of a mere human boy being in charge of her safety, and when he diligently described his training regimen with the girls, she rolled her eyes and said she’d just as well have a stuffed poodle protect her.

A solution was arrived at when Amy suggested they all travel to the house together to see Beth, although this created the additional problems of Aunt March
not wanting to go and Laurie not wanting to escort the insulting old bat. Eventually, both relented when it became clear that Amy would not stop the great heaving sobs that poured through her body, and the girl had the joy of reuniting with her sister.

That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the traveler’s safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth’s room, and finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and a decided look.

“What is it, dear?” asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face which invited confidence.

“I want to tell you something, Mother.”

“About Meg?”

“About Mr. Brooke.”

“John?”

“Who?” cried Jo, staring.

“Mr. Brooke. I call him ‘John’ now. We fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it.”

“Oh, dear! I know you’ll take his part. That mean thing! To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him.” And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.

“My dear, don’t get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence’s request, and was so devoted to poor Father that we couldn’t help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved
her and desired nothing more than her siring him, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to do him the honor. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to him, but I will not consent to Meg’s engaging herself so young.”

“Of course not. It would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing. I felt it, and now it’s worse than I imagined. Listen to me, Mother, John isn’t all that he seems. He’s a slayer.”

Now Marmee smiled and patted her daughter on the head. “Yes, dear, so you’ve said. But I think perhaps you’ve mistaken your feelings. You dislike the thought of someone carrying Meg away, so you’ve made her suitor a villain. It’s perfectly natural to resist something that will alter the whole rhythm of your life but if you listen to me and trust me to guide you wisely, you will find that change is a natural and even desirable thing.”

“It’s true I wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family,” said Jo, “but my accusation has nothing to do with my personal feelings. It’s grounded in pure scientific evidence. I’ve done extensive research into Father’s fever and have found incontestable proof that John Brooke means us harm.”

Her mother nodded. “Beth is asleep. Speak low, and tell me all about it.”

“You recall that Gentleman Jackson found the
formula for the cure in a journal dating back to the Transylvanian Inquisition?” Jo said. She did not have to pause here and refresh her mother’s memory about that dark time, when vampires were considered demons, lived shadowy lives, and feared discovery and death at any moment. Many humans suffered greatly as well, for sometimes the only way to prove one wasn’t a vampire was to bleed to death when one’s severed leg did not regenerate. “Well, the fever has its roots in the same period. You see, an inquisitor in Sibiu
²⁶
decided that interviewing each suspected vampire was too slow a process and invented a disease that wiped out entire lines in a fell swoop. He created a sickness that could be spread by people. A human was contaminated with the illness, which for him was no worse than a cold, and he passed it to the vampire through close contact. That’s how Beth caught it from the Hummel baby, which, being only an infant, did not have the strength to fight the infection and died itself. The disease, called the chilly death, as the body was wracked by chills, was made from, among other things, manganese, hornbeam, chernozem, and essence of vampire. No one knows exactly what essence of vampire is, but historians do know that it can be extracted from seemingly ordinary items like a woman’s glove. Then it is mixed with the other components to create the deadly formulation,
which can be used against any vampire who shares a sire with the glove’s owner. This means that the chilly death made from any of the vampires that Father sired would kill
all
the vampires in his line. That connection also explains why Father’s blood saved Beth. He’s her sire, so his blood was the most vital ingredient in the antidote. And here’s the important piece of information you don’t know: Last summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences’ and only one was returned. We forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke had it,” Jo revealed, delivering the coup de grace.

Her mother did not respond for a full minute and when she did speak, it was with all the gravity her daughter expected. “I can readily understand, Jo, why you are so worried and I’m sorry for it, but put your mind at ease. John would never hurt this family. He is smitten with Meg and if he did take her glove, he was merely holding on to a sentimental keepsake. It’s harmless, truly, and I don’t think I need remind you who in this family is always losing her gloves. If what you say is true, then the slayer could have very easily used one of your many missing gloves to create his concoction.”

“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.”