CHAPTER TWELVE

Secrets

One morning, Jo was very busy writing, seated alone on the old sofa, with her papers spread out on the table before her. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo wrote away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name 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 story carefully, then she tied it up, and sat a minute looking at it with satisfaction before putting on her hat and jacket as quietly as possible. She then walked out of the back door in the direction of the town, looking very merry and mysterious.

If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements quite strange, as she walked rather quickly till she reached a certain address on a busy street in the center of town. She went into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and after standing a minute, walked away as quickly as she had come. She repeated this several times, which greatly amused young Laurie, who was hiding nearby. On returning for the third time, Jo finally walked up the stairs.

In ten minutes, Jo came running downstairs with a very red face, looking pleased with herself. When she saw young Laurie, she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod.

"Where were you going Jo?" he asked with a naughty smile.

"What are you doing in town?" she responded, looking annoyed. "Were you at a pub drinking?"

"No, ma'am, I was at a gymnasium taking a lesson in fencing."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Why?"

"You can teach me, and then when we have our next play, we'll have a lovely fencing scene."

"I'll teach you whether we have a play or not; it's great fun. But I don't believe that was your only reason for saying,'I'm glad to hear that,' in such a manner, was it, now?"

"No, I was glad that you were not in a pub, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you?"

"Not often."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"It's no harm, Jo. Ned Moffat and a few others often go."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, as you'll become more fond of it, and will waste time and money, and grow like those terrible boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends," said Jo disapprovingly.

"Can't a young man enjoy himself at a pub now and then without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking bothered.

"That depends upon how and where he enjoys himself. I don't like those young men, and wish you'd stay away from them. Mother won't let us have that boy in our house, though he wants to come; and if you grow like him, she won't allow us to spend time with you, either."

"Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.

"No, she can't bear young men like that."

"Well, she need not worry. I don't plan to spend any more time with them."

"Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you. I hear people talk about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor, then I wouldn't worry about you."

"Do you worry about me, Jo?"

"A little, when you look upset, as you sometimes do."

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had not spoken, as his eyes looked angry, though his lips still smiled.

"Are you going to talk this way all the way home?" he asked.

"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'll stop, and I'd like to hear the news very much."

"Alright, then, come on. It's secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours."

"I don't have a secret," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she did have a secret.

"Yes you do—you can't hide anything, so tell me, or I won't tell you mine," cried Laurie.

"Is your secret a nice one?"

"Oh, it's wonderful! All about people you know, and such fun! You should hear it, and I've been wanting to tell someone for quite some time. Now, you begin."

"You won't tell anyone about it at home, will you?"

"Not a word."

"And you won't tease me about it?"

"I never tease."

"Yes, you do. You somehow get everyone to tell you their secrets. I don't know how you do it, but you always do."

"Thank you, now tell me."

"Well, I left two stories with a newspaperman, and he'll tell me next week if he's going to use them," whispered Jo.

"Miss March, the celebrated American author!" cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again.

"Hush! Perhaps he won't even use the stories, but I couldn't rest till I tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn't want anyone else to be disappointed."

"It won't fail. Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared to half the foolish things published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in the paper, and we'll be so proud of our author!"

"Well, thank you," said Jo shyly. "Now, what's your secret."

"I may have troubles later for telling, but I didn't promise not to, so I will. I know that Meg had lost one of her gloves, and I know who has it."

"Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed.

Laurie then bent down to Jo's ear, explaining that his tutor, Mr Brooke had the glove. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying, "How do you know?" "I saw it."

"Where is it?"

"In his pocket."

"All this time since she lost it, he's been holding it?"

"Yes, isn't that romantic?"

"No, it's terrible."

"Don't you like it?"

"Of course I don't. It's ridiculous, it won't be allowed. What would Meg say?"

"You are not to tell anyone, remember that."

"I didn't promise."

"That was understood, and I trusted you."

"Well, I won't say anything for now, 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 anyone try it," cried Jo.

"So I will!" Laurie exclaimed jokingly.

"I don't think secrets agree with me. I feel strange since you told me that," said Jo.

"Run down the hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested Laurie.

No one was in sight, so Jo ran. After reaching the bottom of the hill, Jo immediately began fixing her hair, hoping no one would pass by till she looked like a ladylike young woman again. But someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking quite ladylike herself, as she had been walking through town visiting.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in surprise.

"Getting leaves," answered Jo quietly.

"You have been running, Jo. When will you stop such boyish ways?" said Meg, looking disappointed in her sister's behavior.

"Never till I'm too old to move. 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 her saddened face. Lately, she had felt that Margaret was fast becoming a woman, and Laurie's secret made her fear the separation which must surely come some time and now seemed very near. Laurie saw the trouble in her face, and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where have you been visiting, looking so nice?"

"At the Gardiners', and Sallie Moffat has been telling me about her sister's lovely wedding. It was splendid and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. How delightful that must be!"

"Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.

"Indeed, I do."

"I'm glad of it!" whispered Jo.

"Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.

"Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said Jo, looking angrily at Laurie.

"I shall never 'go and many' anyone," observed Meg, walking on while the others followed laughing, whispering, and "behaving like children," as Meg said to herself.

For a week or two, Jo behaved so oddly that her sisters were quite confused. She ran to the door when the newspaper arrived, was rude to Mr Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg sadly, occasionally jumping up to kiss her in a very mysterious manner. Laurie and Jo were always talking secretly till the others girls declared they had both lost their minds. On the second Saturday after Jo had gone to the newspaper office, Meg watched through the window in surprise as Laurie and Jo ran through the garden towards the house, screaming and laughing together.

"What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young lady," said Meg, as she watched disapprovingly.

"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 having secrets with anyone but her.

In a few minutes, Jo came into the house and laid herself on the sofa, pretending to read.

"Do you have something interesting there?" asked Meg.

"Nothing but a story," returned Jo.

"You'd better read it aloud; that will amuse us and keep you from misbehaving," said Amy.

Jo began reading, and the girls listened with interest, as the story was romantic, and somewhat sorrowful, as most of the characters died in the end.

"Who wrote it?" asked Beth, after Jo had finished the story.

The reader suddenly sat up, saying, "Your sister," in a loud voice.

"You?" cried Meg, dropping her work.

"It's very good!" exclaimed Amy.

"I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!" And Beth ran to hug her sister.

How delighted they all were! Meg wouldn't believe it till she saw the words, "Miss Josephine March," actually printed in the paper, and how proud her mother was when she knew it. Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, 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, as they gathered around Jo.

"Stop talking, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo. Having told how she delivered the stories, 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. It was good practice, he said, and when the beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. He said it was good, and I shall write more, and the newspaperman's going to pay me for the next, and I am so happy. In time, I may be able to support myself and help the girls."

She then wrapped her head in the paper, crying a few small tears of happiness. To be independent and be praised by those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end.

(end of section)