Little Vampire Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  “Don’t you like me so?” asked Meg.

  “No, I don’t,” was the blunt reply.

  “Why not?” in an anxious tone.

  He glanced at the blood dribbling down her chin with an expression that abashed her more than his answer, which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.

  “I don’t like cruelty.”

  That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself who knew nothing of what it was like to be a vampire out among society folk, being a human and all, and a young one at that. Meg walked away, saying petulantly, “You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”

  Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to reflect, for the room was so noisy, and although she knew it wasn’t quite the thing, removed the stream of blood from her chin. She did it discreetly, as if she had something to be ashamed of, which of course only made her feel more ashamed. She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till someone touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow and his hand out…

  “Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me.”

  “I’m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,” said Meg, trying to look offended and failing entirely.

  “Not a bit of it, I’m dying to do it. Come, I’ll be good. I don’t like your behavior, but I do think you look just splendid.” And he waved his hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.

  Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch the time, “Take care my skirt doesn’t trip you up. It’s the plague of my life and I was a goose to wear it.”

  “Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie, looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.

  Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.

  “Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?” said Meg.

  “Won’t I!” said Laurie, with alacrity.

  “Please don’t tell them at home about the game I was playing. They won’t understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.”

  “Then why did you do it?” said Laurie’s eyes, so plainly that Meg hastily added…

  “I shall tell them myself all about it, and ‘fess’ to Mother how silly I’ve been. But I’d rather do it myself. So you’ll not tell, will you?”

  “I give you my word I won’t, only what shall I say when they ask me?”

  “Just say I looked pretty and was having a good time.”

  “I’ll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You don’t look as if you were having a good time. Are you?” And Laurie looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper…

  “No, not just now. Don’t think I’m horrid. I only wanted a little fun, but this sort doesn’t pay, I find, and I’m getting tired of it.”

  “Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?” said Laurie, knitting his black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a pleasant addition to the party.

  “He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he’s coming for them. What a bore!” said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused Laurie immensely.

  He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking a champagne glass filled with warm human blood with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving “like a pair of fools,” as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a defender was needed. He himself was dining on the lovely standing rib of beef with Yorkshire pudding provided for the Moffats’ human guests.

  “I wouldn’t drink much more of that, Meg, your mother doesn’t like it, you know,” he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.

  “I’m not Meg tonight, I’m a fine vampire lady who does all fine society vampire things. Tomorrow I shall repent these acts and be desperately good again,” she answered with an affected little laugh.

  “Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off, ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

  Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did. After supper she blundered through a new game called “the German,” which consisted of driving one’s fangs into the pulse points of a large German man, a skilled player who made scoring almost impossible. The sport was played in teams of two, each earning points for every well-placed tear made, and Meg, little experienced in parlor games of such energetic high zeal, nearly upset her partner with her long skirt. She romped in a way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say good night.

  “Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for her jaw had begun to ache from exertion, a development she hadn’t known was possible.

  “Silence à la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he went away.

  This little bit of byplay excited Annie’s curiosity, but Meg was too tired for gossip and went to her coffin, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade and hadn’t enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was sick from too much rich human blood all the next night, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with her fortnight’s fun and feeling that she had “sat in the lap of luxury” long enough.

  “It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn’t splendid,” said Meg, looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.

  “I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,” replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that eve. For motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children’s faces.

  Meg had told her adventures gaily and said over and over what a charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to their coffins, she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried. As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed sleep, Meg suddenly left her chair and, taking Beth’s stool, leaned her elbows on her mother’s knee, saying bravely…

  “Marmee, I want to ‘fess.’”

  “I thought so. What is it, dear?”

  “Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.

  “Of course not. Don’t I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffats’.”

  “We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little anxious.

  “I told you they taught me games but I didn’t tell you we played those games on vampirists. Laurie thought I wasn’t proper. I know he did, though he didn’t say so. I knew it was wrong, but everyone was so nice and said how well I fit in, and quantities of nonsense, and the humans didn’t seem to mind, so I let them convince me it was all right to be cruel.”

  “Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies.

  “No, I drank human blood and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.

  “There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek, which remained pale white despite her clear distress as Meg answered slowly…

  “Yes. It’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”

  Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats’, and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill-pl
eased that such ideas should be put into Meg’s innocent mind.

  “Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo indignantly. “Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so on the spot?”

  “I couldn’t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help hearing at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t remember that I ought to go away.”

  “Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having ‘plans’ and being kind to Laurie because he’s rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won’t he shout when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?” And Jo laughed, as if on second thought the thing struck her as a good joke.

  “If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you! She mustn’t, must she, Mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.

  “No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can,” said Mrs. March gravely. “I was very unwise to let you go among vampires of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.”

  “Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me. I’ll forget all the bad and remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go. I’ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, Mother. I know I’m a silly little vampire girl, and I’ll stay with you till I’m fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to have fun and flirt with boys, and I can’t help saying I like it,” said Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession.

  “That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn to know and value the fun worth having and the boys worth admiring, Meg.”

  Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new thing to hear Meg talking about cruelty, flirting, and things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow.

  “Mother, do you have ‘plans,’ as Mrs. Moffat said?” asked Meg bashfully.

  “Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat’s, I suspect. I will tell you some of them, for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me, and mothers’ lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my ‘plans’ and help me carry them out, if they are good.”

  Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way…

  “I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To love and sire a good human man is the best and sweetest thing a woman can do, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world, sire rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

  “Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put themselves forward,” sighed Meg.

  “Then we’ll be old maids,” said Jo stoutly.

  “Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly vampire girls, running about to find mates,” said Mrs. March decidedly. “Don’t be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing remember, my girls. Mother is always ready to be your confidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives.”

  “We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade them good night.

  Chapter Nine

  CAMP LAURENCE

  Laurie set up a post office in the hedge in the lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on the doors and every convenience for the mails (also the females). It was the old martin house, but he stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it would hold all sorts of things, and save them valuable time. Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the nightly task of unlocking the little door and distributing the mail. One July night she came in with her hands full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the penny post.

  “Here’s your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that,” she said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in “Marmee’s corner,” and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.

  “Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove,” continued Beth, delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands.

  “Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,” said Meg, looking at the gray cotton glove. “Didn’t you drop the other in the garden?”

  “No, I’m sure I didn’t, for there was only one in the office.”

  “I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted. I think Mr. Brooke did it, for this isn’t Laurie’s writing.”

  Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham morning gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her mother’s mind as she sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied.

  “Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered the whole post office and stuck outside,” said Beth, laughing as she went into the study where Jo sat studying.

  “What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the fashion, because I burn my face looking out the window on sunny mornings. He said, ‘Why mind the fashion? Wear a big hat, and be safe!’ I said I would if I had one, and he has sent me this, to try me. I’ll wear it for fun, and show him I don’t care for the fashion.” And hanging the antique broad-brim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her first letter. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote…

  Dear Jo, What ho!

  Some English girls and boys are coming to see me tomorrow and I want to have a jolly time. If it’s fine, I’m going to pitch my tent in Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet—have a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are nice people, and like such things. Brooke will go to keep us boys steady, and Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you all to join us for games as soon as dusk falls, can’t let Beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry her. My friends have never met vampires but they know better than to bother you with pesky questions. Don’t bother about rations, I’ll see to that and everything else, only do come, there’s a good fellow!

  In a tearing h
urry, Yours ever, Laurie.

  “Here’s richness!” cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.

  “Of course we can go, Mother?”

  Marmee agreed easily, for she knew her daughters were delightful emissaries of the humanitarian way of life and the more people they met, the more people they would win over.

  “I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people. Do you know anything about them, Jo?” asked Meg.

  “Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys. I fancied, from the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn’t admire Kate much.”

  “I’m so glad my French print is clean, it’s just the thing and so becoming!” observed Meg complacently. “Have you anything decent, Jo?”

  “Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and tramp about, so I don’t want any starch to think of. You’ll come, Bethy?”

  “If you won’t let any boys talk to me.”

  “Not a boy!”

  “I like to please Laurie, and I’m not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so kind. But I don’t want to play, or sing, or say anything. I’ll work hard and not trouble anyone, and you’ll take care of me, Jo, so I’ll go.

  “And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to him tonight,” added Beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman had prospered finely in the months since his Great Change. Many of the servants had left his employ for fear of being consumed, so the timid girl could now roam freely around the house without worrying about running into humans.

  On the evening of the fete, the sky was bright and clear, and the girls eagerly prepared for the big event. Moonlight and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a lively bustle tramped enthusiastically out of the house to board the boat that would take them to Longmeadow, where those guests for whom the direct light of the sun did not serve as a match for a giant conflagration had gathered many hours previous.