In spite of much internal rebellion, Charlie held fast to his resolution; and Aunt Clara, finding all persuasions vain, gave in, and prepared to accompany him, in a state of chronic indignation against the world in general and Rose in particular. The poor girl had a hard time of it, and, but for her uncle, would have fared still worse. He was a sort of shield, upon which Mrs. Clara's lamentations, reproaches, and irate glances fell unavailingly, instead of wounding the heart against which they were aimed.
The days passed very quickly now; for every one seemed anxious to have the parting over, and preparations went on rapidly. The big house was made ready to shut up for a year at least, comforts for the long voyage laid in, and farewell visits paid. The generalactivity and excitement rendered it impossible for Charlie to lead the life of an artistic hermit any longer: and he fell into a restless condition, which caused Rose to long for the departure of the "Rajah," when she felt that he would be safe; for these farewell festivities were dangerous to one who was just learning to say "No."
"Half the month safely gone. If we can only get well over these last weeks, a great weight will be off my mind," thought Rose, as she went down one wild, wet morning toward the end of February.
Opening the study-door to greet her uncle, she exclaimed, "Why, Archie!" then paused upon the threshold, transfixed by fear; for in her cousin's white face she read the tidings of some great affliction.
"Hush! don't be frightened. Come in and I'll tell you," he whispered, putting down the bottle he had just taken from the doctor's medicine-closet.
Rose understood and obeyed; for Aunt Plenty was poorly with her rheumatism, and depended on her morning doze.
"What is it?" she said, looking about the room with a shiver, as if expecting to see again what she saw there New-Year's night. Archie was alone, however, and, drawing her toward the closet, answered, with an evident effort to be quite calm and steady,—
"Charlie is hurt! Uncle wants more ether, and the wide bandages in some drawer or other. He told me, but I forget. You keep this place in order: find them for me. Quick!"
Before he had done, Rose was at the drawer, turning over the bandages with hands that trembled as they searched.
"All narrow! I must make some. Can you wait?" And, catching up a piece of old linen, she tore it into wide strips, adding, in the same quick tone, as she began to roll them,—
"Now tell me."
"I can wait: those are not needed just yet. I didn't mean any one should know, you least of all," began Archie, smoothing out the strips as they lay across the table, and evidently surprised at the girl's nerve and skill.
"I can bear it: make haste! Is he much hurt?"
"I'm afraid he is. Uncle looks sober, and the poor boy suffers so I couldn't stay," answered Archie, turning still whiter about the lips that never had so hard a tale to tell before.
"You see, he went to town last evening to meet the man who is going to buy Brutus—"
"And Brutus did it? I knew he would!" cried Rose, dropping her work to wring her hands, as if she guessed the ending of the story now.
"Yes, and if he wasn't shot already I'd do it myself with pleasure; for he's done his best to kill Charlie," muttered Charlie's mate with a grim look; then gave a great sigh, and added with averted face,—
"I shouldn't blame the brute; it wasn't his fault: he needed a firm hand, and—" he stopped there, but Rose said quickly,—
"Go on. Imustknow."
"Charlie met some of his old cronies, quite by accident; there was a dinner-party, and they made him go, just for a good-by they said. He couldn't refuse, and it was too much for him. He would come home alone in the storm, though they tried to keep him as he wasn't fit. Down by the new bridge,—that high embankment you know,—the wind had put the lantern out—he forgot—or something scared Brutus, and all went down together."
Archie had spoken fast and brokenly; but Rose understood, and at the last word hid her face with a little moan, as if she saw it all.
"Drink this and never mind the rest," he said, dashing into the next room and coming back with a glass of water, longing to be done and away; for this sort of pain seemed almost as bad as that he had left.
Rose drank, but held his arm tightly as he would have turned away, saying in a tone of command he could not disobey,—
"Don't keep any thing back: tell me the worst at once."
"We knew nothing of it," he went on obediently. "Aunt Clara thought he was with me, and no one found him till early this morning. A workman recognized him; and he was brought home, dead they thought. I came for uncle an hour ago. Charlie is conscious now, but awfully hurt; and I'm afraid from the way Mac and uncle look at one another that—Oh!Oh! think of it, Rose! crushed and helpless, alone in the rain all night, and I never knew, I never knew!"
With that poor Archie broke down entirely; and, flinging himself into a chair, laid his face on the table, sobbing like a girl. Rose had never seen a man cry before, and it was so unlike a woman's gentler grief that it moved her very much. Putting by her own anguish, she tried to comfort his, and going to him lifted up his head and made him lean on her; for in such hours as this women are the stronger. It was a very little to do, but it did comfort Archie; for the poor fellow felt as if fate was very hard upon him just then, and into this faithful bosom he could pour his brief but pathetic plaint.
"Phebe's gone, and now if Charlie's taken I don't see how Icanbear it!"
"Phebe will come back, dear, and let us hope poor Charlie isn't going to be taken yet. Such things always seem worse at first, I've heard people say; so cheer up and hope for the best," answered Rose, seeking for some comfortable words to say, and finding very few.
They took effect, however; for Archie did cheer up like a man. Wiping away the tears which he so seldom shed that they did not know where to go, he got up, gave himself a little shake, and said with a long breath, as if he had been under water,—
"Now I'm all right, thank you. I couldn't help it: the shock of being waked suddenly to find the dearold fellow in such a pitiful state upset me. I ought to go: are these ready?"
"In a minute. Tell uncle to send for me if I can be of any use. Oh, poor Aunt Clara! how does she bear it?"
"Almost distracted. I took mother to her, and she will do all that anybody can. Heaven only knows what aunt will do if—"
"And Heaven only can help her," added Rose, as Archie stopped at the words he could not utter. "Now take them, and let me know often."
"You brave little soul, I will," and Archie went away through the rain with his sad burden, wondering how Rose could be so calm, when the beloved Prince might be dying.
A long dark day followed, with nothing to break its melancholy monotony except the bulletins that came from hour to hour, reporting little change either for better or for worse. Rose broke the news gently to Aunt Plenty, and set herself to the task of keeping up the old lady's spirits; for, being helpless, the good soul felt as if every thing would go wrong without her. At dusk she fell asleep, and Rose went down to order lights and fire in the parlor, with tea ready to serve at any moment; for she felt sure some of the men would come, and that a cheerful greeting and creature comforts would suit them better than tears, darkness, and desolation.
Presently Mac arrived, saying the instant he entered the room,—
"More comfortable, cousin."
"Thank Heaven!" cried Rose, unclasping her hands. Then seeing how worn out, wet, and weary Mac looked as he came into the light, she added in a tone that was a cordial in itself, "Poor boy, how tired you are! Come here, and let me make you comfortable."
"I was going home to freshen up a bit; for I must be back in an hour. Mother took my place so I could be spared, and came off, as uncle refused to stir."
"Don't go home; for if aunty isn't there it will be very dismal. Step into uncle's room and refresh, then come back and I'll give you your tea. Let me, let me! I can't help in any other way; and Imustdo something, this waiting is so dreadful."
Her last words betrayed how much suspense was trying her; and Mac yielded at once, glad to comfort and be comforted. When he came back, looking much revived, a tempting little tea-table stood before the fire; and Rose went to meet him, saying with a faint smile, as she liberally bedewed him with the contents of a cologne flask,—
"I can't bear the smell of ether: it suggests such dreadful things."
"What curious creatures women are! Archie told us you bore the news like a hero, and now you turn pale at a whiff of bad air. I can't explain it," mused Mac, as he meekly endured the fragrant shower-bath.
"Neither can I; but I've been imagining horrors all day, and made myself nervous. Don't let us talk about it; but come and have some tea."
"That's another queer thing. Tea is your panacea for all human ills; yet there isn't any nourishment in it. I'd rather have a glass of milk, thank you," said Mac, taking an easy-chair and stretching his feet to the fire.
She brought it to him and made him eat something; then, as he shut his eyes wearily, she went away to the piano, and having no heart to sing, played softly till he seemed asleep. But, at the stroke of six, he was up and ready to be off again.
"He gave me that: take it with you and put some on his hair; he likes it, and I do so want to help a little," she said, slipping the pretty flagon into his pocket, with such a wistful look, Mac never thought of smiling at this very feminine request.
"I'll tell him. Is there any thing else I can do for you, cousin?" he asked, holding the cold hand that had been serving him so helpfully.
"Only this: if there is any sudden change, promise to send for me, no matter at what hour it is: Imustsay 'Good-by.'"
"I will come for you. But, Rose, I am sure you may sleep in peace to-night; and I hope to have good news for you in the morning."
"Bless you for that! Come early, and let me see him soon. I will be very good, and I know it will not do him any harm."
"No fear of that: the first thing he said when he could speak was, 'Tell Rose carefully;' and, as I cameaway, he guessed where I was going, and tried to kiss his hand in the old way, you know."
Mac thought it would cheer her to hear that Charlie remembered her; but the sudden thought that she might never see that familiar little gesture any more was the last drop that made her full heart overflow, and Mac saw the "hero" of the morning sink down at his feet in a passion of tears that frightened him. He took her to the sofa, and tried to comfort her; but, as soon as the bitter sobbing quieted, she looked up and said quite steadily, great drops rolling down her cheeks the while,—
"Let me cry: it is what I need, and I shall be all the better for it by and by. Go to Charlie now, and tell him I said with all my heart, 'Good-night!'"
"I will!" and Mac trudged away, marvelling in his turn at the curiously blended strength and weakness of womankind.
That was the longest night Rose ever spent; but joy came in the morning with the early message, "He is better. You are to come by and by." Then Aunt Plenty forgot her lumbago and arose; Aunt Myra, who had come to have a social croak, took off her black bonnet as if it would not be needed at present, and the girl made ready to go and say "Welcome back," not the hard "Good-by."
It seemed very long to wait; for no summons came till afternoon, then her uncle arrived, and at the first sight of his face Rose began to tremble.
"I came for my little girl myself, because we must go back at once," he said, as she hurried toward him hat in hand.
"I'm ready, sir;" but her hands shook as she tried to tie the ribbons, and her eyes never left the face that was so full of tender pity for her.
He took her quickly into the carriage, and, as they rolled away, said with the quiet directness which soothes such agitation better than any sympathetic demonstration,—
"Charlie is worse. I feared it when the pain went so suddenly this morning; but the chief injuries are internal, and one can never tell what the chances are. He insists that he is better, but will soon begin to fail, I fear; become unconscious, and slip away without more suffering. This is the time for you to see him; for he has set his heart on it, and nothing can hurt him now. My child, it is very hard; but we must help each other bear it."
Rose tried to say, "Yes, uncle," bravely; but the words would not come; and she could only slip her hand into his with a look of mute submission. He laid her head on his shoulder, and went on talking so quietly that any one who did not see how worn and haggard his face had grown with two days and a night of sharp anxiety might have thought him cold.
"Jessie has gone home to rest, and Jane is with poor Clara, who has dropped asleep at last. I've sent for Steve and the other boys. There will be time forthem later; but he so begged to see you now, I thought it best to come while this temporary strength keeps him up. I have told him how it is, but he will not believe me. If he asks you, answer honestly; and try to fit him a little for this sudden ending of so many hopes."
"How soon, uncle?"
"A few hours, probably. This tranquil moment is yours: make the most of it; and, when we can do no more for him, we'll comfort one another."
Mac met them in the hall: but Rose hardly saw him; she was conscious only of the task before her; and, when her uncle led her to the door, she said quietly,—
"Let me go in alone, please."
Archie, who had been hanging over the bed, slipped away into the inner room as she appeared; and Rose found Charlie waiting for her with such a happy face, she could not believe what she had heard, and found it easy to say almost cheerfully, as she took his eager hand in both of hers,—
"Dear Charlie, I'm so glad you sent for me. I longed to come, but waited till you were better. You surely are?" she added, as a second glance showed her the indescribable change which had come upon the face which at first seemed to have both light and color in it.
"Uncle says not: but I think he is mistaken, because the agony is all gone; and, except for this odd sinkingnow and then, I don't feel so much amiss," he answered feebly, but with something of the old lightness in his voice.
"You will hardly be able to sail in the 'Rajah,' I fear; but you won't mind waiting a little, while we nurse you," said poor Rose, trying to talk on quietly, with her heart growing heavier every minute.
"I shall go if I'm carried! I'll keep that promise, though it costs me my life. O Rose! you know? they've told you?" and, with a sudden memory of what brought him there, he hid his face in the pillow.
"You broke no promise; for I would not let you make one, you remember. Forget all that, and let us talk about the better time that may be coming for you."
"Always so generous, so kind!" he murmured, with her hand against his feverish cheek; then, looking up, he went on in a tone so humbly contrite it made her eyes fill with slow, hot tears.
"I tried to flee temptation: I tried to say 'No;' but I am so pitiably weak, I couldn't. You must despise me. But don't give me up entirely: for, if I live, I'll do better; I'll go away to father and begin again."
Rose tried to keep back the bitter drops; but they would fall, to hear him still speak hopefully when there was no hope. Something in the mute anguish of her face seemed to tell him what she could not speak; and a quick change came over him as he grasped her hand tighter, saying in a sharp whisper,—
"Have I really got to die, Rose?"
Her only answer was to kneel down and put her arms about him, as if she tried to keep death away a little longer. He believed it then, and lay so still, she looked up in a moment, fearing she knew not what.
But Charlie bore it manfully; for he had the courage which can face a great danger bravely, though not the strength to fight a bosom-sin and conquer it. His eyes were fixed, as if trying to look into the unseen world whither he was going, and his lips firmly set that no word of complaint should spoil the proof he meant to give that, though he had not known how to live, he did know how to die. It seemed to Rose as if for one brief instant she saw the man that might have been, if early training had taught him how to rule himself; and the first words he uttered with a long sigh, as his eye came back to her, showed that he felt the failure and owned it with pathetic candor.
"Better so, perhaps; better go before I bring any more sorrow to you, and shame to myself. I'd like to stay a little longer, and try to redeem the past; it seems so wasted now: but, if I can't, don't grieve, Rose; I'm no loss to any one, and perhaps itistoo late to mend."
"Oh, don't say that! no one will fill your place among us: we never can forget how much we loved you; and you must believe how freely we forgive as we would be forgiven," cried Rose, steadied by thepale despair that had fallen on Charlie's face with those bitter words.
"'Forgive us our trespasses!' Yes, I should say that. Rose, I'm not ready; it is so sudden: what can I do?" he whispered, clinging to her, as if he had no anchor except the creature whom he loved so much.
"Uncle will tell you: I am not good enough; I can only pray for you," and she moved as if to call in the help so sorely needed.
"No, no, not yet! stay by me, darling: read something; there, in grandfather's old book, some prayer for such as I. It will do me more good from you than any minister alive."
She got the venerable book,—given to Charlie because he bore the good man's name,—and, turning to the "Prayer for the Dying," read it brokenly; while the voice beside her echoed now and then some word that reproved or comforted.
"The testimony of a good conscience." "By the sadness of his countenance may his heart be made better." "Christian patience and fortitude." "Leave the world in peace." "Amen."
There was silence for a little; then Rose, seeing how wan he looked, said softly, "Shall I call uncle now?"
"If you will; but first—don't smile at my foolishness, dear—I want my little heart. They took it off: please give it back, and let me keep it always," he answered, with the old fondness strong as ever,even when he could only show it by holding fast the childish trinket which she found and gave him,—the old agate heart with the faded ribbon. "Put it on, and never let them take it off," he said; and, when she asked if there was any thing else she could do for him, he tried to stretch out his arms to her with a look which asked for more.
She kissed him very tenderly on lips and forehead; tried to say "Good-by," but could not speak, and groped her way to the door. Turning for a last look, Charlie's hopeful spirit rose for a moment, as if anxious to send her away more cheerful, and he said with a shadow of the old blithe smile, a feeble attempt at the familiar farewell gesture,—
"Till to-morrow, Rose."
Alas, for Charlie! his to-morrow never came: and, when she saw him next, he lay there looking so serene and noble, it seemed as if it must be well with him: for all the pain was past; temptation ended; doubt and fear, hope and love, could no more stir his quiet heart, and in solemn truth hehadgone to meet his Father, and begin again.
The "Rajah" was delayed awhile, and when it sailed poor Mrs. Clara was on board; for every thing was ready, all thought she had better go to comfort her husband, and since her boy died she seemed to care very little what became of her. So, with friends to cheer the long voyage, she sailed away, a heavy-hearted woman, yet not quite disconsolate; for she knew her mourning was excessively becoming, and felt sure that Stephen would not find her altered by her trials as much as might have been expected.
Then nothing was left of that gay household but the empty rooms, silence never broken by a blithe voice any more, and pictures full of promise, but all unfinished, like poor Charlie's life.
There was much mourning for the bonny Prince, but no need to tell of it except as it affected Rose; for it is with her we have most to do, the other characters being of secondary importance.
When time had soothed the first shock of sudden loss, she was surprised to find that the memory of his faults and failings, short life and piteous death, grew dim as if a kindly hand wiped out the record, and gave him back to her in the likeness of the brave, bright boy she had loved, not as the wayward, passionate young man who had loved her.
This comforted her very much; and, folding down the last blotted leaf where his name was written, she gladly turned back to reopen and reread the happier chapters which painted the youthful knight before he went out to fall in his first battle. None of the bitterness of love bereaved marred this memory for Rose, because she found that the warmer sentiment, just budding in her heart, had died with Charlie, and lay cold and quiet in his grave. She wondered, yet was glad; though sometimes a remorseful pang smote her when she discovered how possible it was to go on without him, feeling almost as if a burden had been lifted off, since his happiness was taken out of her hands. The time had not yet come when the knowledge that a man's heart was in her keeping would make the pride and joy of her life; and while she waited for that moment she enjoyed the liberty she seemed to have recovered.
Such being her inward state, it much annoyed her to be regarded as a broken-hearted girl, and pitied for the loss of her young lover. She could not explain to all the world, so let it pass, and occupied her mind with the good works which always lie ready to be taken up and carried on. Having chosen philanthropy as her profession, she felt that it was high time to begin the task too long neglected.
Her projects were excellent, but did not prosper as rapidly as she hoped; for, having to deal with people, not things, unexpected obstacles were constantly arising. The "Home for Decayed Gentlewomen," as theboys insisted on calling her two newly repaired houses, started finely; and it was a pleasant sight to see the comfortable rooms filled with respectable women busy at their various tasks, surrounded by the decencies and many of the comforts which make life endurable. But, presently, Rose was disturbed to find that the good people expected her to take care of them in a way she had not bargained for. Buffum, her agent, was constantly reporting complaints, new wants, and general discontent if they were not attended to. Things were neglected, water-pipes froze and burst, drains got out of order, yards were in a mess, and rents behindhand. Worst of all, outsiders, instead of sympathizing, only laughed and said, "We told you so," which is a most discouraging remark to older and wiser workers than Rose.
Uncle Alec, however, stood by her staunchly, and helped her out of many of her woes by good advice, and an occasional visit of inspection, which did much to impress upon the dwellers there the fact that, if they did not do their part, their leases would be short ones.
"I didn't expect to make any thing out of it, but I did think they would be grateful," said Rose, on one occasion when several complaints had come in at once, and Buffum had reported great difficulty in collecting the low rents.
"If you do this thing for the sake of the gratitude, then itisa failure: but if it is done for the love ofhelping those who need help it is a success; for in spite of their worry every one of those women feel what privileges they enjoy and value them highly," said Dr. Alec, as they went home after one of these unsatisfactory calls.
"Then the least they can do is to say 'Thank you.' I'm afraid Ihavethought more of the gratitude than the work; but if there isn't any I must make up my mind to go without," answered Rose, feeling defrauded of her due.
"Favors often separate instead of attracting people nearer to one another, and I've seen many a friendship spoilt by the obligation being all on one side. Can't explain it, but it is so; and I've come to the conclusion that it is as hard to give in the right spirit as it is to receive. Puzzle it out, my dear, while you are learning to do good for its own sake."
"I know one sort of people whoaregrateful, and I'm going to devote my mind to them. They thank me in many ways, and helping them is all pleasure and no worry. Come in to the hospital and see the dear babies, or the Asylum and carry oranges to Phebe's orphans:theydon't complain and fidget one's life out, bless their hearts!" cried Rose, clearing up suddenly.
After that she left Buffum to manage the "Retreat," and devoted her energies to the little folks, always so ready to receive the smallest gift, and repay the giver with their artless thanks. Here she found plenty todo, and did it with such sweet good-will that she won her way like sunshine, making many a little heart dance over splendid dolls, gay picture-books, and pots of flowers, as well as food, fire, and clothes for the small bodies pinched with want and pain.
As spring came, new plans sprung up as naturally as dandelions. The poor children longed for the country; and, as the green fields could not come to them, Rose carried them to the green fields. Down on the Point stood an old farmhouse, often used by the Campbell tribe for summer holidays. That spring it was set to rights unusually early, several women installed as housekeeper, cook, and nurses; and, when the May days grew bright and warm, squads of pale children came to toddle in the grass, run over the rocks, and play upon the smooth sands of the beach. A pretty sight, and one that well repaid those who brought it to pass.
Every one took an interest in the "Rose Garden," as Mac named it; and the women-folk were continually driving over to the Point with something for the "poor dears." Aunt Plenty sowed gingerbread broadcast; Aunt Jessie made pinafores by the dozen; while Aunt Jane "kept her eye" on the nurses, and Aunt Myra supplied medicines so liberally that the mortality would have been awful, if Dr. Alec had not taken them in charge. To him this was the most delightful spot in the world: and well it might be; for he suggested the idea, and gave Rose all the credit ofit. He was often there, and his appearance was always greeted with shrieks of rapture, as the children gathered from all quarters: creeping, running, hopping on crutches, or carried in arms which they gladly left to sit on "Uncle Doctor's" knee; for that was the title by which he went among them.
He seemed as young as any of his comrades, though the curly head was getting gray; and the frolics that went on when he arrived were better than any medicine to children who had never learned to play. It was a standing joke among the friends that the bachelor brother had the largest family, and was the most domestic man of the remaining four; though Uncle Mac did his part manfully, and kept Aunt Jane in a constant fidget, by his rash propositions to adopt the heartiest boys and prettiest girls to amuse him and employ her.
On one occasion she had a very narrow escape; and the culprit being her son, not her husband, she felt free to repay herself for many scares of this sort by a good scolding; which, unlike many, produced excellent results.
One bright June day, as Rose came cantering home from the Point on her pretty bay pony, she saw a man sitting on a fallen tree beside the road, and something in his despondent attitude arrested her attention. As she drew nearer, he turned his head, and she stopped short, exclaiming in great surprise,—
"Why, Mac! whatareyou doing here?"
"Trying to solve a problem," he answered, looking up with a whimsical expression of perplexity and amusement in his face, which made Rose smile, till his next words turned her sober in a twinkling,—
"I've eloped with a young lady, and don't know what to do with her. I took her home, of course; but mother turned her out of the house, and I'm in a quandary."
"Is that her baggage?" asked Rose, pointing with her whip to the large bundle which he held; while the wild idea flashed through her head that perhaps he reallyhaddone some rash deed of this sort.
"No, this is the young lady herself;" and, opening a corner of the brown shawl, he displayed a child of three,—so pale, so thin, and tiny, that she looked like a small scared bird just fallen from the nest, as she shrunk away from the light with great frightened eyes, and a hand like a little claw tightly clutching a button of Mac's coat.
"Poor baby! where did it come from?" cried Rose, leaning down to look.
"I'll tell you the story, and then you shall advise me what to do. At our hospital, we've had a poor woman who got hurt, and died two days ago. I had nothing to do with her, only took her a bit of fruit once or twice; for she had big, wistful sort of eyes that haunted me. The day she died I stopped a minute, and the nurse said she'd been wanting to speak to me, but didn't dare. So I asked if I could do any thingfor her; and, though she could hardly breathe for pain,—being almost gone,—she implored me to take care of baby. I found out where the child was, and promised I'd see after her; for the poor soul couldn't seem to die till I'd given her that comfort. I never can forget the look in her eyes, as I held her hand, and said, 'Baby shall be taken care of.' She tried to thank me, and died soon after quite peacefully. Well, I went to-day and hunted up the poor little wretch. Found her in a miserable place, left in the care of an old hag, who had shut her up alone to keep her out of the way, and there this mite was, huddled in a corner crying, 'Marmar, marmar!' fit to touch a heart of stone. I blew up the woman, and took baby straight away, for she had been abused; and it was high time. Look there, will you?"
Mac turned the little skinny arm, and showed a blue mark which made Rose drop her reins, and stretch out both hands, crying with a tender sort of indignation,—
"How dared they do it? Give her to me; poor, little, motherless thing!"
Mac laid the bundle in her arms, and Rose began to cuddle it in the fond, foolish way women have,—a most comfortable and effective way, nevertheless; and baby evidently felt that things were changing for the better, when warm lips touched her cheeks, a soft hand smoothed her tumbled hair, and a womanly face bent over her, with the inarticulate cooings and purrings mothers make. The frightened eyes went up tothis gentle countenance, and rested there as if reassured; the little claw crept to the girl's neck, and poor baby nestled to her with a long sigh, and a plaintive murmur of "Marmar, marmar," that certainly would have touched a stony heart.
"Now, go on. No, Rosa, not you," said the new nurse, as the intelligent animal looked round to see if things were all right before she proceeded.
"I took the child home to mother, not knowing what else to do; but she wouldn't have it at any price, even for a night. She doesn't like children, you know, and father has joked so much about the Pointers that she is quite rampant at the mere idea of a child in the house. She told me to take it to the Rose Garden. I said it was running over now, and no room even for a mite like this. 'Go to the Hospital,' says she. 'Baby isn't ill, ma'am,' says I. 'Orphan Asylum,' says she. 'Not an orphan: got a father who can't take care of her,' says I. 'Take her to the Foundling place, or Mrs. Gardener, or some one whose business it is. I willnothave the creature here, sick and dirty and noisy. Carry it back, and ask Rose to tell you what to do with it.' So my cruel parent cast me forth; but relented as I shouldered baby, gave me a shawl to put her in, a jumble to feed her with, and money to pay her board in some good place. Mother's bark is always worse than her bite, you know."
"And you were trying to think of the 'good place' as you sat here?" asked Rose, looking down at himwith great approval, as he stood patting Rosa's glossy neck.
"Exactly. I didn't want to trouble you, for you have your house full already; and I really couldn't lay my hand on any good soul who would be bothered with this little forlornity. She has nothing to recommend her, you see,—not pretty, feeble, and shy as a mouse; no end of care, I dare say: yet she needs every bit she can get to keep soul and body together, if I'm any judge."
Rose opened her lips impulsively, but closed them without speaking, and sat a minute looking straight between Rosa's ears, as if forcing herself to think twice before she spoke. Mac watched her out of the corner of his eye, as he said, in a musing tone, tucking the shawl round a pair of shabby little feet the while,—
"This seems to be one of the charities that no one wants to undertake; yet I can't help feeling that my promise to the mother binds me to something more than merely handing baby over to some busy matron or careless nurse in any of our over-crowded institutions. She is such a frail creature she won't trouble any one long, perhaps; and Ishouldlike to give her just a taste of comfort, if not love, before she finds her 'Marmar' again."
"Lead Rosa: I'm going to take this child home; and, if uncle is willing, I'll adopt her, and sheshallbe happy!" cried Rose, with the sudden glow of feelingthat always made her lovely. And, gathering poor baby close, she went on her way like a modern Britomart, ready to redress the wrongs of any who had need of her.
As he led the slowly stepping horse along the quiet road, Mac could not help thinking that they looked a little like the Flight into Egypt: but he did not say so, being a reverent youth,—only glanced back now and then at the figure above him; for Rose had taken off her hat to keep the light from baby's eyes, and sat with the sunshine turning her uncovered hair to gold, as she looked down at the little creature resting on the saddle before her, with the sweet thoughtfulness one sees in some of Correggio's young Madonnas.
No one else saw the picture, but Mac long remembered it; and ever after there was a touch of reverence added to the warm affection he had always borne his cousin Rose.
"What is the child's name?" was the sudden question which disturbed a brief silence, broken only by the sound of pacing hoofs, the rustle of green boughs overhead, and the blithe carolling of birds.
"I'm sure I don't know," answered Mac, suddenly aware that he had fallen out of one quandary into another.
"Didn't you ask?"
"No: the mother called her 'Baby;' the old woman, 'Brat.' And that is all I know of the first name: the last is Kennedy. You can Christen her what you like."
"Then I shall name her Dulcinea, as you are her knight, and call her Dulce for short. That is a sweet diminutive, I'm sure," laughed Rose, much amused at the idea.
Don Quixote looked pleased, and vowed to defend his little lady stoutly, beginning his services on the spot by filling the small hands with buttercups, thereby winning for himself the first smile baby's face had known for weeks.
When they got home, Aunt Plenty received her new guest with her accustomed hospitality, and, on learning the story, was as warmly interested as even enthusiastic Rose could desire, bustling about to make the child comfortable with an energy pleasant to see; for the grandmotherly instincts were strong in the old lady, and of late had been beautifully developed.
In less than half an hour from the time baby went upstairs, she came down again on Rose's arm, freshly washed and brushed, in a pink gown much too large, and a white apron decidedly too small; an immaculate pair of socks, but no shoes; a neat bandage on the bruised arm, and a string of spools for a plaything hanging on the other. A resigned expression sat upon her little face; but the frightened eyes were only shy now, and the forlorn heart evidently much comforted.
"There! how do you like your Dulce now?" said Rose, proudly displaying the work of her hands, as she came in with her habit pinned up, and carrying a silver porringer of bread and milk.
Mac knelt down, took the small, reluctant hand, and kissed it as devoutly as ever good Alonzo Quixada did that of the Duchess; while he said, merrily quoting from the immortal story,—
"'High and Sovereign Lady, thine till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'"
But baby had no heart for play, and, withdrawing her hand, pointed to the porringer, with the suggestive remark,—
"Din-din,now."
So Rose sat down and fed the Duchess, while the Don stood by and watched the feast with much satisfaction.
"How nice she looks! Do you consider shoes unhealthy?" he asked, surveying the socks with respectful interest.
"No: her shoes are drying. You must have let her go in the mud."
"I only put her down for a minute when she howled; and she made for a puddle, like a duck. I'll buy her some new ones,—clothes too. Where do I go, what do I ask for, and how much do I get?" he said, diving for his pocket-book, amiably anxious, but pitiably ignorant.
"I'll see to that. We always have things on hand for the Pointers as they come along, and can soon fit Dulce out. You may make some inquiries about the father if you will; for I don't want to have her taken away just as I get fond of her. Do you know any thing about him?"
"Only that he is in State Prison for twenty-one years, and not likely to trouble you."
"How dreadful! I really think Phebe was better off to have none at all. I'll go to work at once, then, and try to bring up the convict's little daughter to be a good woman; so that she will have an honest name of her own, since he has nothing but disgrace to give her."
"Uncle can show you how to do that, if you need any help. He has been so successful in his first attempt I fancy you won't require much," said Mac, picking up the spools for the sixth time.
"Yes, I shall; for it is a great responsibility, and I do not undertake it lightly," answered Rose, soberly; though the double-barrelled compliment pleased her very much.
"I'm sure Phebe has turned out splendidly, and you began very early with her."
"So I did! that's encouraging. Dear thing, how bewildered she looked when I proposed adopting her. I remember all about it; for uncle had just come, and I was quite crazy over a box of presents, and rushed at Phebe as she was cleaning brasses. How little I thought my childish offer would end so well!" and Rose fell a musing with a happy smile on her face, while baby picked the last morsels out of the porringer with her own busy fingers.
It certainly had ended well; for Phebe at the end of six months not only had a good place as choir-singer,but several young pupils, and excellent prospects for the next winter.
"'Accept the blessing of a poor young man,Whose lucky steps have led him to your door,'
"'Accept the blessing of a poor young man,Whose lucky steps have led him to your door,'
and let me help as much as I can. Good-by, my Dulcinea," and, with a farewell stroke of the smooth head, Mac went away to report his success to his mother, who, in spite of her seeming harshness, was already planning how she could best befriend this inconvenient baby.
Uncle Alec did not object; and, finding that no one had any claim upon the child, permitted Rose to keep it for a time at least. So little Dulce, newly equipped even to a name, took her place among them and slowly began to thrive. But she did not grow pretty, and never was a gay, attractive child; for she seemed to have been born in sorrow and brought up in misery. A pale, pensive little creature, always creeping into corners and looking timidly out, as if asking leave to live, and, when offered playthings, taking them with a meek surprise that was very touching.
Rose soon won her heart, and then almost wished she had not; for baby clung to her with inconvenient fondness, changing her former wail of "Marmar" into a lament for "Aunty Wose" if separated long. Nevertheless, there was great satisfaction in cherishing the little waif; for she learned more than she could teach, and felt a sense of responsibility which was excellent ballast for her enthusiastic nature.
Kitty Van, who made Rose her model in all things, was immediately inspired to go and do likewise, to the great amusement as well as annoyance of her family. Selecting the prettiest, liveliest child in the Asylum, she took it home on trial for a week. "A perfect cherub" she pronounced it the first day, but an "enfant terrible" before the week was over; for the young hero rioted by day, howled by night, ravaged the house from top to bottom, and kept his guardians in a series of panics by his hair-breadth escapes. So early on Saturday, poor, exhausted Kitty restored the "cherub" with many thanks, and decided to wait till her views of education were rather more advanced.
As the warm weather came on, Rose announced that Dulce needed mountain air; for she dutifully repeated as many of Dr. Alec's prescriptions as possible, and, remembering how much good Cosy Corner did her long ago, resolved to try it on her baby. Aunt Jessie and Jamie went with her, and Mother Atkinson received them as cordially as ever. The pretty daughters were all married and gone, but astout damsel took their place; and nothing seemed changed except that the old heads were grayer and the young ones a good deal taller than six years ago.
Jamie immediately fraternized with neighboring boys, and devoted himself to fishing with an ardor which deserved greater success. Aunt Jessie revelled in the reading, for which she had no time at home; and lay in her hammock a happy woman, with no socks to darn, buttons to sew, or housekeeping cares to vex her soul.
Rose went about with Dulce like a very devoted hen with one rather feeble chicken; for she was anxious to have this treatment work well, and tended her little patient with daily increasing satisfaction. Dr. Alec came up to pass a few days, and pronounced the child in a most promising condition. But the grand event of the season was the unexpected arrival of Phebe.
Two of her pupils had invited her to join them in a trip to the mountains, and she ran away from the great hotel to surprise her little mistress with a sight of her, so well and happy that Rose had no anxiety left on her account.
Three delightful days they spent, roaming about together, talking as only girls can talk after a long separation, and enjoying one another like a pair of lovers. As if to make it quite perfect, by one of those remarkable coincidences which sometimes occur, Archie happened to run up for the Sunday; so Phebehadhersurprise, and Aunt Jessie and the telegraph kept their secret so well, no one ever knew what maternal machinations brought the happy accident to pass.
Then Rose saw a very pretty, pastoral bit of love-making, and long after it was over, and Phebe gone one way, Archie another, the echo of sweet words seemed to linger in the air, tender ghosts to haunt the pine-grove, and even the big coffee-pot had a halo of romance about it; for its burnished sides reflected the soft glances the lovers interchanged, as one filled the other's cup at that last breakfast.
Rose found these reminiscences more interesting than any novel she had read, and often beguiled her long leisure by planning a splendid future for her Phebe, as she trotted about after her baby in the lovely July weather.
On one of the most perfect days, she sat under an old apple-tree on the slope behind the house where they used to play. Before her opened the wide intervale, dotted with hay-makers at their picturesque work. On the left, flowed the swift river fringed with graceful elms in their bravest greenery; on the right, rose the purple hills serene and grand; and overhead glowed the midsummer sky which glorified it all.
Little Dulce tired of play, lay fast asleep in the nest she had made in one of the hay-cocks close by; and Rose leaned against the gnarled old tree, dreaming day-dreams with her work at her feet. Happy andabsorbing fancies they seemed to be; for her face was beautifully tranquil, and she took no heed of the train which suddenly went speeding down the valley, leaving a white cloud behind. Its rumble concealed the sound of approaching steps, and her eyes never turned from the distant hills, till the abrupt appearance of a very sunburnt but smiling young man made her jump up, exclaiming joyfully,—
"Why Mac! where did you drop from?"
"The top of Mount Washington. How do you do?"
"Never better. Won't you go in? You must be tired after such a fall."
"No, thank you; I've seen the old lady. She told me Aunt Jessie and the boy had gone to town, and that you were 'settin' round' in the old place; so I came on at once, and will take a lounge here, if you don't mind," answered Mac, unstrapping his knapsack, and taking a hay-cock as if it were a chair.
Rose subsided into her former seat, surveying her cousin with much satisfaction, as she said,—
"This is the third surprise I've had since I came. Uncle popped in upon us first, then Phebe, and now you. Have you had a pleasant tramp? Uncle said you were off."
"Delightful! I feel as if I'd been in heaven, or near it, for about three weeks; and thought I'd break the shock of coming down to the earth by calling here on my way home."
"You look as if heaven suited you. Brown as aberry; but so fresh and happy, I should never guess you had been scrambling down a mountain," said Rose, trying to discover why he looked so well in spite of the blue-flannel suit and dusty shoes; for there was a certain sylvan freshness about him, as he sat there full of the reposeful strength the hills seemed to have given, the wholesome cheerfulness days of air and sunshine put into a man, and the clear, bright look of one who had caught glimpses of a new world from the mountain-top.
"Tramping agrees with me. I took a dip in the river as I came along, and made my toilet in a place where Milton's Sabrina might have lived," he said, shaking back his damp hair, and settling the knot of scarlet bunch-berries stuck in his button-hole.
"You look as if you found the nymph at home," said Rose, knowing how much he liked the Comus.
"I found herhere," and he made a little bow.
"That's very pretty; and I'll give you one in return. You grow more like Uncle Alec every day, and I think I'll call you Alec, Jr."
"Alexander the Great wouldn't thank you for that," and Mac did not look as grateful as she had expected.
"Very like, indeed, except the forehead. His is broad and benevolent; yours high and arched. Do you know if you had no beard, and wore your hair long, I really think you'd look like Milton," added Rose, sure that would please him.
It certainly did amuse him; for he lay back on thehay and laughed so heartily that his merriment scared the squirrel on the wall and woke Dulce.
"You ungrateful boy! will nothing suit you? When I say you look like the best man I know, you give a shrug; and, when I liken you to a great poet, you shout: I'm afraid you are very conceited, Mac;" and Rose laughed too, glad to see him so gay.
"If I am, it is your fault. Nothing I can do will ever make a Milton of me, unless I go blind some day," he said, sobering at the thought.
"You once said a man could be what he liked if he tried hard enough; so why shouldn't you be a poet?" asked Rose, liking to trip him up with his own words, as he often did her.
"I thought I was to be an M.D."
"You might be both. There have been poetical doctors, you know."
"Would you like me to be such an one?" asked Mac, looking at her as seriously as if he really thought of trying it.
"No: I'd rather have you one or the other. I don't care which, only you must be famous in either you choose. I'm very ambitious for you; because, I insist upon it, you are a genius of some sort. I think it is beginning to simmer already, and I've a great curiosity to know what it will turn out to be."
Mac's eyes shone as she said that, but before he could speak a little voice said, "Aunty Wose!" and he turned to find Dulce sitting up in her nest, staring at the broad blue back before her with round eyes.
"Do you know your Don?" he asked, offering his hand with respectful gentleness; for she seemed a little doubtful whether he was friend or stranger.
"It is 'Mat,'" said Rose, and that familiar word seemed to reassure the child at once; for, leaning forward, she kissed him as if quite used to doing it.
"I picked up some toys for her by the way, and she shall have them at once to pay for that. I didn't expect to be so graciously received by this shy mouse," said Mac, much gratified; for Dulce was very chary of her favors.
"She knew you; for I always carry my home-album with me and when she comes to your picture she always kisses it, because I never want her to forget her first friend," explained Rose, pleased with her pupil.
"First, but not best," answered Mac, rummaging in his knapsack for the promised toys, which he set forth upon the hay before delighted Dulce.
Neither picture-books nor sweeties; but berries strung on long stems of grass, acorns and pretty cones, bits of rock shining with mica, several bluebirds' feathers, and a nest of moss with white pebbles for eggs.
"Dearest Nature, strong and kind," knows what children love, and has plenty of such playthings ready for them all, if one only knows how to find them. These were received with rapture; and, leaving the little creature to enjoy them in her own quiet way,Mac began to tumble the things back into his knapsack again. Two or three books lay near Rose, and she took up one which opened at a place marked by a scribbled paper.
"Keats? I didn't know you condescended to read any thing so modern," she said, moving the paper to see the page beneath.
Mac looked up, snatched the book out of her hand, and shook down several more scraps; then returned it with a curiously shame-faced expression, saying, as he crammed the papers into his pocket,—
"I beg pardon, but it was full of rubbish. Oh, yes! I'm fond of Keats; don't you know him?"
"I used to read him a good deal; but uncle found me crying over the 'Pot of Basil,' and advised me to read less poetry for a while or I should get too sentimental," answered Rose, turning the pages without seeing them; for a new idea had just popped into her head.
"'The Eve of St. Agnes' is the most perfect love-story in the world, I think," said Mac, enthusiastically.
"Read it to me. I feel just like hearing poetry, and you will do it justice if you are fond of it," said Rose, handing him the book with an innocent air.
"Nothing I'd like better; but it is rather long."
"I'll tell you to stop if I get tired. Baby won't interrupt; she will be contented for an hour with those pretty things."
As if well pleased with his task, Mac laid himselfcomfortably on the grass, and leaning his head on his hand read the lovely story as only one could who entered fully into the spirit of it. Rose watched him closely, and saw how his face brightened over some quaint fancy, delicate description, or delicious word; heard how smoothly the melodious measures fell from his lips, and read something more than admiration in his eyes, as he looked up now and then to mark if she enjoyed it as much as he.
She could not help enjoying it; for the poet's pen painted as well as wrote, and the little romance lived before her: but she was not thinking of John Keats as she listened; she was wondering if this cousin was a kindred spirit, born to make such music and leave as sweet an echo behind him. It seemed as if it might be; and, after going through the rough caterpillar and the pent-up chrysalis changes, the beautiful butterfly would appear to astonish and delight them all. So full of this fancy was she that she never thanked him when the story ended; but, leaning forward, asked in a tone that made him start and look as if he had fallen from the clouds,—
"Mac, do you ever write poetry?"
"Never."
"What do you call the song Phebe sang with her bird chorus?"
"That was nothing till she put the music to it. But she promised not to tell."
"She didn't; I suspected, and now I know," laughed Rose, delighted to have caught him.
Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling, and leaning on both elbows tried to hide his face; for it had reddened like that of a modest girl when teased about her lover.
"You needn't look so guilty; it is no sin to write poetry," said Rose, amused at his confusion.
"It's a sin to call that rubbish poetry," muttered Mac, with great scorn.
"It is a greater sin to tell a fib, and say you never write it."
"Reading so much sets one thinking about such things, and every fellow scribbles a little jingle when he is lazy or in love, you know," explained Mac, looking very guilty.
Rose could not quite understand the change she saw in him, till his last words suggested a cause which she knew by experience was apt to inspire young men. Leaning forward again, she asked solemnly, though her eyes danced with fun,—
"Mac, are you in love?"
"Do I look like it?" and he sat up with such an injured and indignant face, that she apologized at once; for he certainly did not look lover-like with hay-seed in his hair, several lively crickets playing leap-frog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretching from tree to hay-cock.
"No, you don't; and I humbly beg your pardon for making such an unwarrantable insinuation. It merely occurred to me that the general upliftedness I observein you might be owing to that, since it wasn't poetry."
"It is the good company I've been keeping, if any thing. A fellow can't spend 'A Week' with Thoreau, and not be the better for it. I'm glad I show it; because in the scramble life is to most of us, even an hour with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his must help one," said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket with the air of introducing a dear and honored friend.
"I've read bits, and liked them: they are so original and fresh and sometimes droll," said Rose, smiling to see what natural and appropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon the pages Mac was turning eagerly; for one had evidently been rained on, a crushed berry stained another, some appreciative field-mouse or squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover was faded with the sunshine, which seemed to have filtered through to the thoughts within.
"Here's a characteristic bit for you:—
"'I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox-cart, with free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train, and breathe malaria all the way.'
"I've tried both and quite agree with him," laughed Mac; and, skimming down another page, gave her a paragraph here and there.
"'Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all.'
"'We do not learn much from learned books, but from sincere human books: frank, honest biographies.'
"'At least let us have healthy books. Let the poet be as vigorous as a sugar-maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure, besides what runs into the trough; and not like a vine which, being cut in the spring, bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor to heal its wounds.'"
"That will do for you," said Rose, still thinking of the new suspicion which pleased her by its very improbability.
Mac flashed a quick look at her and shut the book, saying quietly, though his eyes shone, and a conscious smile lurked about his mouth,—
"We shall see, and no one need meddle; for, as my Thoreau says,—