Little Vampire Women (12 page)

L
ike 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 Unquenchables
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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.

L
ike 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.
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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 Technique
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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 to 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.”

“Don’t think of me at all. I’d rather you wouldn’t,” said Meg.

He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped about the room as they did. He just stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found herself doubting her own conclusion. What if he weren’t a slayer but a genuine suitor? What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute.

The old lady couldn’t resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March’s arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.

“Bless me, what’s all this?” cried the old lady with a rap of her cane as she glanced at the departing young gentleman.

“It’s Father’s friend. I’m so surprised to see you!” stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.

“That’s evident,” returned Aunt March, sitting down. “But what is Father’s friend saying to make you look like a peony? There’s mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is,” with another rap.

“We were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,” began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.

“Brooke? That boy’s tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Father’s letters, and I made her tell me. You haven’t gone and accepted him, child?” cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.

“Shan’t I call Mother?” said Meg, much troubled.

“Not yet. I’ve something to say to you, and I must
free my mind at once. This Cook is a vampire slayer and he’s only interested in you as a means to kill me,” said the old lady impressively.

Meg had thought very much the same thing only a moment before, but her aunt’s vehement insistence made her reevaluate the validity of that conclusion. The paranoid old lady thought every maid, cook, valet, and butler in Concord was a vampire slayer; naturally, she would think the same of a lowly tutor (whom she seemed to have mistaken for a cook anyway). But like almost all maids, cooks, valets, and butlers in the city, he was merely a hardworking man struggling to make ends meet. Shame on Jo for making her think any differently.

“I shall sire whom I please, Aunt March,” she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.

“Highty-tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, Miss? You’ll be sorry for it by-and-by, when you’re pulling a stake out of your chest.”

“It can’t be worse than having a conversation with you,” retorted Meg.

Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so brave and independent, so glad to defend John and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying as mildly as she could, “Now, Meg, my dear, be
reasonable and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don’t want you to spoil your whole life by aligning yourself with a man who means to end it. This Rook
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is a slayer and has dastardly plans to do you and your family—and by family, I of course mean myself—harm. I don’t doubt that he’s part of the group that’s been trying to decapitate me since they removed the head from your poor uncle’s body.”

“Father and Mother don’t believe John is a slayer.”

“Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of babies.”

“I’m glad of it,” cried Meg stoutly, although, of course, she would like them to be able to spot a slayer should one appear to court her.

Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. “I realize you are having your first romance and cannot thusly be relied on to be logical. You are, in fact, poor and young and silly, and I will not stand for this another moment. From this minute on, you are not to see any more of this Hook. He is banished forever, do you understand?”

“The only thing I understand is how egregiously you’ve misjudged Mr. Brooke, Aunt March. John is good and wise, he’s got heaps of talent, he’s willing to work and sure to get on, he’s so energetic and brave.
Everyone likes and respects him, and I’m proud to think he cares for me, though I’m so poor and young and silly,” said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.

“He knows you have got important relations, child. That’s the secret of his liking. He wants to kill me in my coffin.”

“Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such meanness, and I won’t listen to you a minute if you talk so,” cried Meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady’s suspicions. “My John wouldn’t kill you, any more than I would. We are willing to work and we mean to wait. I’m not afraid of being poor, for I’ve been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him because he loves me, and I…”

Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn’t made up her mind, that she had told “her John” to go away and that he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.

Aunt March was very angry, for she hated her advice not to be heeded, especially on a topic as serious as her life and possible assassination. Clearly, she would have to increase her own security to balance the greater threat to her welfare. It was all she could do.

“Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful child, and you’ve lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won’t stop. I’m disappointed in
you, and haven’t spirits to see your father now. Don’t expect anything more from me. I’m done with you forever.”

And slamming the door in Meg’s face, Aunt March drove off in high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl’s courage with her, for when left alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or wail. Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said all in one breath, “I couldn’t help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care for me a little bit.”

“I didn’t know how much till she abused you,” began Meg.

“And I needn’t go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?”

Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either. “Yes, John,” she whispered and hid her face on Mr. Brooke’s waistcoat.

Fifteen minutes after Aunt March’s departure, Jo came rushing into the house, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound within, knocked down the door, terrified that she might find the glutinous remains of her dear sister upon the carpet and sofa. Instead, she beheld the enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with her soon-to-be-decapitated sister enthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression
of the most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if the hot sun had suddenly shined on her, for such an unexpected turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd sound the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy, but “that man,” as Jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer, “Sister Jo, congratulate us!”