"'Whate'er we leave to God, God doesAnd blesses us:The work we choose should be our ownGod lets alone.'"
"'Whate'er we leave to God, God doesAnd blesses us:The work we choose should be our ownGod lets alone.'"
Rose sat silent, as if conscious that she deserved his poetical reproof.
"Come, you have catechised me pretty well; now I'll take my turn and ask whyyoulook 'uplifted,' as you call it. What have you been doing to make yourself more like your namesake than ever?" asked Mac, carrying war into the enemy's camp with the sudden question.
"Nothing but live, and enjoy doing it. I actually sit here, day after day, as happy and contented with little things as Dulce is, and feel as if I wasn't much older than she," answered the girl, feeling as if some change was going on in that pleasant sort of pause, but unable to describe it.
"'As if a rose should shut and be a bud again,'"
"'As if a rose should shut and be a bud again,'"
murmured Mac, borrowing from his beloved Keats.
"Ah, but I can't do that! I must go on blooming whether I like it or not, and the only trouble I have is to know what leaf I ought to unfold next," said Rose, playfully smoothing out the white gown, in which she looked very like a daisy among the green.
"How far have you got?" asked Mac, continuing his catechism as if the fancy suited him.
"Let me see. Since I came home last year, I've been gay, then sad, then busy, and now I am simply happy. I don't know why; but seem to be waiting for what is to come next, and getting ready for it, perhaps unconsciously," she said, looking dreamily away to the hills again, as if the new experience was coming to her from afar.
Mac watched her thoughtfully for a minute, wondering how many more leaves must unfold, before the golden heart of this human flower would lie open to the sun. He felt a curious desire to help in some way, and could think of none better than to offer her what he had found most helpful to himself. Picking upanother book, he opened it at a place where an oak-leaf lay, and, handing it to her, said, as if presenting something very excellent and precious,—
"If you want to be ready to take whatever comes in a brave and noble way, read that, and the one where the page is turned down."
Rose took it, saw the words "Self-Reliance," and, turning the leaves, read here and there a passage which was marked:—
"'My life is for itself, and not for a spectacle.'
"'Insist on yourself: never imitate. That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him.'
"'Do that which is assigned to you, and you cannot hope or dare too much.'"
Then coming to the folded leaf, whose title was "Heroism," she read, and brightened as she read,—
"'Let the maiden, with erect soul, walk serenely on her way; accept the hint of each new experience; search in turn all the objects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm of her newborn being.'
"'The fair girl who repels interference by a decided and proud choice of influences inspires every beholder with something of her own nobleness; and the silent heart encourages her. O friend, never strike sail to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God the seas.'"
"You understand that, don't you?" asked Mac, as she glanced up with the look of one who had found something suited to her taste and need.
"Yes, but I never dared to read these Essays, because I thought they were too wise for me."
"The wisest things are sometimes the simplest, I think. Every one welcomes light and air, and cannot do without them; yet very few could explain them truly. I don't ask you to read or understand all of that,—don't myself,—but I do recommend the two essays I've marked, as well as 'Love and Friendship.' Try them, and let me know how they suit. I'll leave you the book."
"Thanks. I wanted something fine to read up here; and, judging by what I see, I fancy thiswillsuit. Only Aunt Jessie may think I'm putting on airs, if I try Emerson."
"Why should she? He has done more to set young men and women thinking, than any man in this century at least. Don't you be afraid: if it is what you want, take it, and go ahead as he tells you,—
"'Without halting, without rest,Lifting Better up to Best.'"
"'Without halting, without rest,Lifting Better up to Best.'"
"I'll try," said Rose, meekly; feeling that Mac had been going ahead himself much faster than she had any suspicion.
Here a voice exclaimed "Hallo!" and, looking round, Jamie was discovered surveying them critically, as he stood in an independent attitude, like a small Colossus of Rhodes in brown linen, with a bundle of molasses-candy in one hand, several new fish-hookscherished carefully in the other, and his hat well on the back of his head, displaying as many freckles as one somewhat limited nose could reasonably accommodate.
"How are you, young one?" said Mac, nodding.
"Tip-top. Glad it's you: thought Archie might have turned up again, and he's no fun. Where did you come from? What did you come for? How long are you going to stay? Want a bit? It's jolly good."
With which varied remarks Jamie approached, shook hands in a manly way, and, sitting down beside his long cousin, hospitably offered sticks of candy all round.
"Did you get any letters?" asked Rose, declining the sticky treat.
"Lots: but mamma forgot to give 'em to me, and I was rather in a hurry; for Mrs. Atkinson said somebody had come, and I couldn't wait," explained Jamie, reposing luxuriously with his head on Mac's legs, and his mouth full.
"I'll step and get them. Aunty must be tired, and we should enjoy reading the news together."
"She is the most convenient girl that ever was," observed Jamie, as Rose departed, thinking Mac might like some more substantial refreshment than sweetmeats.
"I should think so, if you let her run your errands, you lazy little scamp," answered Mac, looking after her as she went up the green slope; for there was something very attractive to him about the slenderfigure in a plain white gown, with a black sash about the waist, and all the wavy hair gathered to the top of the head with a little black bow.
"Sort of pre-Raphaelite, and quite refreshing after the furbelowed creatures at the hotels," he said to himself, as she vanished under the arch of scarlet-runners over the garden-gate.
"Oh, well! she likes it. Rose is fond of me, and I'm very good to her when I have time," continued Jamie, calmly explaining. "I let her cut out a fish-hook, when it caught in my leg, with a sharp pen-knife; and you'd better believe it hurt: but I never squirmed a bit, and she said I was a brave boy. And then, one day I got left on my desert island,—out in the pond, you know,—the boat floated off, and there I was for as much as an hour before I could make any one hear. But Rose thought I might be there; and down she came, and told me to swim ashore. It wasn't far; but the water was horrid cold, and I didn't like it. I started though, just as she said, and got on all right, till about half way, then cramp or something made me shut up and howl, and she came after me slapdash, and pulled me ashore. Yes, sir, as wet as a turtle, and looked so funny, I laughed; and that cured the cramp. Wasn't I good to mind when she said, 'Come on?'"
"She was, to dive after such a scapegrace. I guess you lead her a life of it, and I'd better take you home with me in the morning," suggested Mac, rolling theboy over, and giving him a good-natured pummelling on the hay-cock, while Dulce applauded from her nest.
When Rose returned with ice-cold milk, gingerbread, and letters, she found the reader of Emerson up in the tree, pelting and being pelted with green apples, as Jamie vainly endeavored to get at him. The siege ended when Aunt Jessie appeared; and the rest of the afternoon was spent in chat about home affairs.
Early the next morning Mac was off, and Rose went as far as the old church with him.
"Shall you walk all the way?" she asked, as he strode along beside her, in the dewy freshness of the young day.
"Only about twenty miles, then take car and whisk back to my work," he answered, breaking a delicate fern for her.
"Are you never lonely?"
"Never: I take my best friends along, you know," and he gave a slap to the pocket from which peeped the volume of Thoreau.
"I'm afraid you leave your very best behind you," said Rose, alluding to the book he had lent her yesterday.
"I'm glad to share it with you. I have much of it here; and a little goes a great way, as you will soon discover," he answered, tapping his head.
"I hope the reading will do as much for me as it seems to have done for you. I'm happy; but you are wise and good: I want to be, also."
"Read away, and digest it well; then write, and tell me what you think of it. Will you?" he asked, as they paused where the four roads met.
"If you will answer. Shall you have time with all your other work? Poetry—I beg pardon—medicine is very absorbing, you know," answered Rose, mischievously; for just then, as he stood bareheaded with the shadows of the leaves playing over his fine forehead, she remembered the chat among the hay-cocks, and he did not look at all like an M.D.
"I'll make time."
"Good-by, Milton."
"Good-by, Sabrina."
Rose did read and digest, and found her days much richer for the good company she kept; for an introduction to so much that was wise, beautiful, and true, could not but make that month a memorable one. It is not strange that while the young man most admired "Heroism" and "Self-Reliance," the girl preferred "Love" and "Friendship," reading them over and over like prose poems, as they are, to the fittingaccompaniment of sunshine, solitude, and sympathy; for letters went to and fro, with praiseworthy regularity.
Rose much enjoyed this correspondence, and found herself regretting that it was at an end when she went home in September; for Mac wrote better than he talked, though he could do that remarkably well when he chose. But she had no chance to express either pleasure or regret; for, the first time she saw him after her return, the great change in his appearance made her forget every thing else. Some whim had seized him to be shaven and shorn, and when he presented himself to welcome Rose she hardly knew him; for the shaggy hair was nicely trimmed and brushed, the cherished brown beard entirely gone, showing a well cut mouth and handsome chin, and giving a new expression to the whole face.
"Are you trying to look like Keats?" she asked after a critical glance, which left her undecided whether the change was an improvement or not.
"I am trying not to look like uncle," answered Mac, coolly.
"And why, if you please?" demanded Rose, in great surprise.
"Because I prefer to look like myself, and not resemble any other man, no matter how good or great he may be."
"You haven't succeeded then; for you look now very much like the Young Augustus," returned Rose,rather pleased, on the whole, to see what a finely shaped head appeared after the rough thatch was off.
"Trust a woman to find a comparison for every thing under the sun!" laughed Mac, not at all flattered by the one just made. "What do you think of me, on the whole?" he asked a minute later, as he found Rose still scrutinizing him with a meditative air.
"Haven't made up my mind. It is such an entire change I don't know you, and feel as if I ought to be introduced. You certainly look much more tidy; and I fancy Ishalllike it, when I'm used to seeing a somewhat distinguished-looking man about the house instead of my old friend Orson," answered Rose, with her head on one side to get a profile view.
"Don't tell uncle why I did it, please: he thinks it was for the sake of coolness, and likes it, so take no notice; they are all used to me now, and don't mind," said Mac, roving about the room as if rather ashamed of his whim after all.
"No, I won't; but you mustn't mind if I'm not as sociable as usual for a while. I never can be with strangers, and you really do seem like one. That will be a punishment for your want of taste and love of originality," returned Rose, resolved to punish him for the slight put upon her beloved uncle.
"As you like. I won't trouble you much anyway; for I'm going to be very busy. May go to L. this winter, if uncle thinks best; and then my 'originality' can't annoy you."
"I hope you won't go. Why, Mac, I'm just getting to know and enjoy you, and thought we'd have a nice time this winter reading something together. Must you go?" and Rose seemed to forget his strangeness, as she held him still by one button while she talked.
"Thatwouldbe nice. But I feel as if I must go: my plans are all made, and I've set my heart on it," answered Mac, looking so eager that Rose released him, saying sadly,—
"I suppose it is natural for you all to get restless, and push off; but it is hard for me to let you go one after the other, and stay here alone. Charlie is gone, Archie and Steve are wrapt up in their sweethearts, the boys away, and only Jamie left to 'play with Rose.'"
"But I'll come back, and you'll be glad I went if I bring you my—" began Mac, with sudden animation; then stopped abruptly to bite his lips, as if he had nearly said too much.
"Your what?" asked Rose, curiously; for he neither looked nor acted like himself.
"I forgot how long it takes to get a diploma," he said, walking away again.
"There will be one comfort if you go: you'll see Phebe, and can tell me all about her; for she is so modest she doesn't half do it. I shall want to know how she gets on, if she is engaged to sing ballads in the concerts they talk of for next winter. You will write, won't you?"
"Oh, yes! no doubt of that," and Mac laughed low to himself, as he stooped to look at the little Psyche on the mantel-piece. "What a pretty thing it is!" he added soberly, as he took it up.
"Be careful. Uncle gave it to me last New-Year, and I'm very fond of it. She is just lifting her lamp to see what Cupid is like; for she hasn't seen him yet," said Rose, busy putting her work-table in order.
"You ought to have a Cupid for her to look at. She has been waiting patiently a whole year, with nothing but a bronze lizard in sight," said Mac, with the half-shy, half-daring look which was so new and puzzling.
"Cupid flew away as soon as she woke him, you know, and she had a bad time of it. She must wait longer till she can find and keep him."
"Do you know she looks like you? Hair tied up in a knot, and a spiritual sort of face. Don't you see it?" asked Mac, turning the graceful little figure toward her.
"Not a bit of it. I wonder whom I shall resemble next! I've been compared to a Fra Angelico angel, Saint Agnes, and now 'Syke,' as Annabel once called her."
"You'd see what I mean, if you'd ever watched your own face when you were listening to music, talking earnestly, or much moved; then your soul gets into your eyes and you are—like Psyche."
"Tell me the next time you see me in a 'soulful'state, and I'll look in the glass; for I'd like to see if it is becoming," said Rose, merrily, as she sorted her gay worsteds.
"'Your feet in the full-grown grasses,Moved soft as a soft wind blows;You passed me as April passes,With a face made out of a rose,'"
"'Your feet in the full-grown grasses,Moved soft as a soft wind blows;You passed me as April passes,With a face made out of a rose,'"
murmured Mac, under his breath, thinking of the white figure going up a green slope one summer day; then, as if chiding himself for sentimentality, he set Psyche down with great care, and began to talk about a course of solid reading for the winter.
After that, Rose saw very little of him for several weeks, as he seemed to be making up for lost time, and was more odd and absent than ever when he did appear. As she became accustomed to the change in his external appearance, she discovered that he was altering fast in other ways, and watched the "distinguished-looking gentleman" with much interest; saying to herself, when she saw a new sort of dignity about him alternating with an unusual restlessness of manner, and now and then a touch of sentiment, "Genius is simmering, just as I predicted."
As the family were in mourning, there were no festivities on Rose's twenty-first birthday, though the boys had planned all sorts of rejoicings. Every one felt particularly tender toward their girl on that day, remembering how "poor Charlie" had loved her; and they tried to show it in the gifts and good wishes theysent her. She found her sanctum all aglow with autumn leaves, and on her table so many rare and pretty things she quite forgot she was an heiress, and only felt how rich she was in loving friends.
One gift greatly pleased her, though she could not help smiling at the source from whence it came; for Mac sent her a Cupid,—not the chubby child with a face of naughty merriment, but a slender, winged youth, leaning on his unstrung bow, with a broken arrow at his feet. A poem, "To Psyche," came with it: and Rose was much surprised at the beauty of the lines; for, instead of being witty, complimentary, or gay, there was something nobler than mere sentiment in them, and the sweet old fable lived again in language which fitly painted the maiden Soul looking for a Love worthy to possess it.
Rose read them over and over, as she sat among the gold and scarlet leaves which glorified her little room, and each time found new depth and beauty in them; looking from the words that made music in her ear to the lovely shapes that spoke with their mute grace to her eye. The whole thing suited her exactly, it was so delicate and perfect in its way; for she was tired of costly gifts, and valued very much this proof of her cousin's taste and talent, seeing nothing in it but an affectionate desire to please her.
All the rest dropped in at intervals through the day to say a loving word, and last of all came Mac. Rose happened to be alone with Dulce, enjoying asplendid sunset from her western window; for October gave her child a beautiful good-night.
Rose turned round as he entered, and, putting down the little girl, went to him with the evening red shining on her happy face, as she said gratefully,—
"Dear Mac, it wassolovely! I don't know how to thank you for it in any way but this." And, drawing down his tall head, she gave him the birthday kiss she had given all the others.
But this time it produced a singular effect: for Mac turned scarlet, then grew pale; and when Rose added playfully, thinking to relieve the shyness of so young a poet, "Never say again you don't write poetry, or call your verses rubbish: Iknewyou were a genius, and now I'm sure of it," he broke out, as if against his will,—
"No. It isn't genius: it is—love!" Then, as she shrunk a little, startled at his energy, he added, with an effort at self-control which made his voice sound strange,—
"I didn't mean to speak, but I can't suffer you to deceive yourself so. Imusttell the truth, and not let you kiss me like a cousin when I love you with all my heart and soul!"
"O Mac, don't joke!" cried Rose, bewildered by this sudden glimpse into a heart she thought she knew so well.
"I'm in solemn earnest," he answered, steadily, in such a quiet tone that, but for the pale excitement ofhis face, she might have doubted his words. "Be angry, if you will. I expect it, for I know it is too soon to speak. I ought to wait for years, perhaps; but you seemed so happy I dared to hope you had forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" asked Rose, sharply.
"Charlie."
"Ah! you all will insist on believing that I loved him better than I did!" she cried, with both pain and impatience in her voice; for the family delusion tried her very much at times.
"How could we help it, when he was every thing women most admire?" said Mac, not bitterly, but as if he sometimes wondered at their want of insight.
"Ido not admire weakness of any sort: I could never love without either confidence or respect. Do me the justice to believe that, for I'm tired of being pitied."
She spoke almost passionately, being more excited by Mac's repressed emotion than she had ever been by Charlie's most touching demonstration, though she did not know why.
"But he loved you so!" began Mac; feeling as if a barrier had suddenly gone down, but not daring to venture in as yet.
"That was the hard part of it! That was why I tried to love him,—why I hoped he would stand fast for my sake, if not for his own; and why I found it so sad sometimes not to be able to help despising himfor his want of courage. I don't know how others feel, but, to me, love isn't all. I must look up, not down, trust and honor with my whole heart, and find strength and integrity to lean on. I have had it so far, and I know I could not live without it."
"Your ideal is a high one. Do you hope to find it, Rose?" Mac asked, feeling, with the humility of a genuine love, thathecould not give her all she desired.
"Yes," she answered, with a face full of the beautiful confidence in virtue, the instinctive desire for the best which so many of us lose too soon, to find again after life's great lessons are well learned. "I do hope to find it, because I try not to be unreasonable and expect perfection. Smile if you will, but I won't give up my hero yet," and she tried to speak lightly, hoping to lead him away from a more dangerous topic.
"You'll have to look a long while, I'm afraid," and all the glow was gone out of Mac's face; for he understood her wish, and knew his answer had been given.
"I have uncle to help me; and I think my ideal grew out of my knowledge of him. How can I fail to believe in goodness, when he shows me what it can be and do?"
"It is no use for me to say any more; for I have very little to offer. I did not mean to say a word, till I'd earned a right to hope for something in return.I cannot take it back; but I can wish you success, and I do, because you deserve the very best," and Mac moved, as if he was going away without more words, accepting the inevitable as manfully as he could.
"Thank you: that makes me feel very ungrateful and unkind. I wish I could answer as you want me to; for, indeed, dear Mac, I'm very fond of you in my own way," and Rose looked up with such tender pity and frank affection in her face, it was no wonder the poor fellow caught at a ray of hope, and, brightening suddenly, said in his own odd way,—
"Couldn't you take me on trial, while you are waiting for the true hero? It may be years before you find him; meantime, you could be practising on me in ways that would be useful when you get him."
"O Mac! whatshallI do with you?" exclaimed Rose, so curiously affected by this very characteristic wooing, that she did not know whether to laugh or cry; for he was looking at her with his heart in his eyes, though his proposition was the queerest ever made at such a time.
"Just go on being fond of me in your own way, and let me love you as much as I like in mine. I'll try to be satisfied with that," and he took both her hands so beseechingly that she felt more ungrateful than ever.
"No, it would not be fair: for you would love the most; and, if the hero did appear, what would become of you?"
"I should resemble Uncle Alec in one thing at least,—fidelity; for my first love would be my last."
That went straight to Rose's heart; and for a minute she stood silent, looking down at the two strong hands that held hers so firmly, yet so gently; and the thought went through her mind, "Must he too be solitary all his life? I have no dear lover as my mother had, why cannot I make him happy and forget myself?"
It did not seem very hard; and she owned that, even while she told herself to remember that compassion was no equivalent for love. She wanted to give all she could, and keep as much of Mac's affection as she honestly might; because it seemed to grow more sweet and precious when she thought of putting it away.
"You will be like uncle in happier ways than that, I hope; for you, too, must have a high ideal, and find her and be happy," she said, resolving to be true to the voice of conscience, not be swayed by the impulse of the moment.
"Ihavefound her, but I don't see any prospect of happiness, do you?" he asked, wistfully.
"Dear Mac, I cannot give you the love you want, but I do trust and respect you from the bottom of my heart, if that is any comfort," began Rose, looking up with eyes full of contrition, for the pain her reply must give.
She got no further, however; for those last wordswrought a marvellous change in Mac. Dropping her hands, he stood erect, as if inspired with sudden energy and hope, while over his face there came a brave, bright look, which for the moment made him a nobler and a comelier man than ever handsome Prince had been.
"Itisa comfort!" he said, in a tone of gratitude, that touched her very much. "You said your love must be founded on respect, and that you have given me: why can I not earn the rest? I'm nothing now; but every thing is possible when one loves with all his heart and soul and strength. Rose,Iwill be your hero if a mortal man can, even though I have to work and wait for years. I'llmakeyou love me, and be glad to do it. Don't be frightened. I've not lost my wits: I've just found them. I don't ask any thing: I'll never speak of my hope, but it is no use to stop me; Imusttry it, and Iwillsucceed!"
With the last words, uttered in a ringing voice, while his face glowed, his eyes shone, and he looked as if carried out of himself by the passion that possessed him, Mac abruptly left the room, like one eager to change words to deeds and begin his task at once.
Rose was so amazed by all this, that she sat down trembling a little, not with fear or anger, but a feeling half pleasure, half pain; and a sense of some new power—subtle, strong, and sweet—that had come into her life. It seemed as if another Mac had taken the place of the one she had known so long,—an ardent,ambitious man, ready for any work, now that the magical moment had come, when every thing seems possible to love. If hope could work such a marvellous change for a moment, could not happiness do it for a lifetime? It would be an exciting experiment to try, she thought, remembering the sudden illumination which made that familiar face both beautiful and strange.
She could not help wondering how long this unsuspected sentiment had been growing in his heart, and felt perplexed by its peculiar demonstration; for she had never had a lover like this before. It touched and flattered her, nevertheless: and she could not but feel honored by a love so genuine and generous; for it seemed to make a man of Mac all at once, and a manly man too, who was not daunted by disappointment, but could "hope against hope", and resolve tomakeher love him if it took years to do it.
There was the charm of novelty about this sort of wooing, and she tried to guess how he would set about it, felt curious to see how he would behave when next they met, and was half angry with herself for not being able to decide how she ought to act. The more she thought the more bewildered she grew; for, having made up her mind that Mac was a genius, it disturbed all her plans to find him a lover, and such an ardent one. As it was impossible to predict what would come next, she gave up trying to prepare for it; and, tired with vain speculations, carried Dulce off tobed, wishing she could tuck away her love-troubles as quietly and comfortably as she did her sleepy little charge.
Simple and sincere in all things, Mac gave Rose a new surprise by keeping his promise to the letter,—asked nothing of her, said nothing of his hope, and went on as if nothing had happened, quite in the old friendly way. No, not quite; for now and then, when she least expected it, she saw again that indescribable expression in his face, a look that seemed to shed a sudden sunshine over her, making her eyes fall involuntarily, her color rise, and her heart beat quicker for a moment. Not a word did he say, but she felt that a new atmosphere surrounded her when he was by; and, although he used none of the little devices most lovers employ to keep the flame alight, it was impossible to forget that underneath his quietude there was a hidden world of fire and force, ready to appear at a touch, a word from her.
This was rather dangerous knowledge for Rose, and she soon began to feel that there were more subtle temptations than she had suspected; for it was impossible to be unconscious of her power, or always to resist the trials of it which daily came unsought. She had never felt this desire before: for Charlie was the only one who had touched her heart; and he was constantly asking as well as giving, and wearied her by demanding too much, or oppressed by offering more than she could accept.
Mac did neither: he only loved her, silently, patiently, hopefully; and this generous sort of fidelity was very eloquent to a nature like hers. She could not refuse or chide, since nothing was asked or urged: there was no need of coldness, for he never presumed; no call for pity, since he never complained. All that could be done was to try and be as just and true as he was, and to wait as trustfully for the end, whatever it was to be.
For a time she liked the new interest it put into her life, yet did nothing to encourage it; and thought that if she gave this love no food it would soon starve to death. But it seemed to thrive on air; and presently she began to feel as if a very strong will was slowly but steadily influencing her in many ways. If Mac had never told her that he meant to "makeher love him", she might have yielded unconsciously; but now she mistook the impulse to obey this undercurrent for compassion, and resisted stoutly, not comprehending yet the reason of the unrest which took possession of her about this time.
She had as many moods as an April day; and would have much surprised Dr. Alec by her vagaries, had he known them all. He saw enough, however, to guess what was the matter, but took no notice; for he knew this fever must run its course, and much medicine only does harm. The others were busy about their own affairs, and Aunt Plenty was too much absorbed in her rheumatism to think of love; for the cold weatherset in early, and the poor lady kept her room for days at a time, with Rose as nurse.
Mac had spoken of going away in November, and Rose began to hope he would; for she decided that this silent sort of adoration was bad for her, as it prevented her from steadily pursuing the employments she had marked out for that year. What was the use of trying to read useful books, when her thoughts continually wandered to those charming essays on "Love and Friendship"? to copy antique casts, when all the masculine heads looked like Cupid, and the feminine ones like the Psyche on her mantel-piece? to practise the best music, if it ended in singing over and over the pretty spring-song without Phebe's bird-chorus? Dulce's company was pleasantest now; for Dulce seldom talked, so much meditation was possible. Even Aunt Plenty's red flannel, camphor, and Pond's Extract were preferable to general society; and long solitary rides on Rosa seemed the only thing to put her in tune after one of her attempts to find out what she ought to do or leave undone.
She made up her mind at last; and arming herself with an unmade pen, like Fanny Squeers, she boldly went into the study to confer with Dr. Alec, at an hour when Mac was usually absent.
"I want a pen for marking: can you make me one, uncle?" she asked, popping in her head to be sure he was alone.
"Yes, my dear," answered a voice so like the doctor's that she entered without delay.
But before she had taken three steps she stopped, looking rather annoyed; for the head that rose from behind the tall desk was not rough and gray, but brown and smooth, and Mac, not Uncle Alec, sat there writing. Late experience had taught her that she had nothing to fear from atête-à-tête; and, having with difficulty taken a resolution, she did not like to fail of carrying it out.
"Don't get up: I won't trouble you if you are busy; there is no hurry", she said, not quite sure whether it were wiser to stay or run away.
Mac settled the point, by taking the pen out of her hand and beginning to cut it, as quietly as Nicholas did on that "thrilling" occasion. Perhaps he was thinking of that; for he smiled as he asked,—
"Hard or soft?"
Rose evidently had forgotten that the family of Squeers ever existed, for she answered,—
"Hard, please," in a voice to match. "I'm glad to see you doing that", she added, taking courage from his composure, and going as straight to her point as could be expected of a woman.
"And I am very glad to do it."
"I don't mean making pens, but the romance I advised," and she touched the closely written page before him, looking as if she would like to read it.
"That is my abstract of a lecture on the circulation of the blood," he answered, kindly turning it so that she could see. "I don't write romances: I'm livingone," and he glanced up with the happy, hopeful expression which always made her feel as if he was heaping coals of fire on her head.
"I wish you wouldn't look at me in that way: it fidgets me," she said a little petulantly; for she had been out riding, and knew that she did not present a "spiritual" appearance, after the frosty air had reddened nose as well as cheeks.
"I'll try to remember. It does itself before I know it. Perhaps this may mend matters," and, taking out the blue glasses he sometimes wore in the wind, he gravely put them on.
Rose could not help laughing: but his obedience only aggravated her; for she knew he could observe her all the better behind his ugly screen.
"No, it won't: they are not becoming; and I don't want to look blue when I do not feel so," she said, finding it impossible to guess what he would do next, or to help enjoying his peculiarities.
"But you don't to me; for in spite of the goggles every thing is rose-colored now," and he pocketed the glasses, without a murmur at the charming inconsistency of his idol.
"Really, Mac, I'm tired of this nonsense: it worries me and wastes your time."
"Never worked harder. But does itreallytrouble you to know I love you?" he asked anxiously.
"Don't you see how cross it makes me?" and she walked away, feeling that things were not going as she intended to have them at all.
"I don't mind the thorns if I get the rose at last; and I still hope I may, some ten years hence," said this persistent suitor, quite undaunted by the prospect of a "long wait."
"I think it is rather hard to be loved whether I like it or not," objected Rose, at a loss how to make any headway against such indomitable hopefulness.
"But you can't help it, nor can I: so I must go on doing it with all my heart till you marry; and then—well, then I'm afraid I may hate somebody instead," and Mac spoilt the pen by an involuntary slash of his knife.
"Please don't, Mac!"
"Don't which, love or hate?"
"Don't do either: go and care for some one else; there are plenty of nice girls who will be glad to make you happy," said Rose, intent upon ending her disquiet in some way.
"That is too easy. I enjoy working for my blessings; and the harder I have to work the more I value them when they come."
"Then if I suddenly grew very kind would you stop caring about me?" asked Rose, wondering if that treatment would free her from a passion which both touched and tormented her.
"Try and see;" but there was a traitorous glimmer in Mac's eyes which plainly showed what a failure it would be.
"No, I'll get something to do, so absorbing I shall forget all about you."
"Don't think about me if it troubles you," he said tenderly.
"I can't help it." Rose tried to catch back the words: but it was too late; and she added hastily, "That is, I cannot help wishing you would forgetme. It is a great disappointment to find I was mistaken when I hoped such fine things of you."
"Yes, you were very sure that it was love when it was poetry; and now you want poetry when I've nothing on hand but love. Will both together please you?"
"Try and see."
"I'll do my best. Any thing else?" he asked, forgetting the small task she had given him, in his eagerness to attempt the greater.
"Tell me one thing. I've often wanted to know; and now you speak of it I'll venture to ask. Did you care about me when you read Keats to me last summer?"
"No."
"Whendidyou begin?" asked Rose, smiling in spite of herself at his unflattering honesty.
"How can I tell? Perhaps it did begin up there, though; for that talk set us writing, and the letters showed me what a beautiful soul you had. I loved that first: it was so quick to recognize good things, to use them when they came, and give them out again as unconsciously as a flower does its breath. I longed for you to come home, and wanted you to find mealtered for the better in some way as I had found you. And when you came it was very easy to see why I needed you,—to love you entirely, and to tell you so. That's all, Rose."
A short story, but it was enough: the voice that told it with such simple truth made the few words so eloquent Rose felt strongly tempted to add the sequel Mac desired. But her eyes had fallen as he spoke; for she knew his were fixed upon her, dark and dilated, with the same repressed emotion that put such fervor into his quiet tones, and, just as she was about to look up, they fell on a shabby little footstool. Trifles affect women curiously, and often most irresistibly when some agitation sways them: the sight of the old hassock vividly recalled Charlie; for he had kicked it on the night she never liked to remember; like a spark it fired a long train of recollections, and the thought went through her mind,—
"I fancied I loved him, and let him see it; but I deceived myself, and he reproached me for a single look that said too much. This feeling is very different, but too new and sudden to be trusted. I'll neither look nor speak till I am quite sure; for Mac's love is far deeper than poor Charlie's, and I must be very true."
Not in words did the resolve shape itself, but in a quick impulse, which she obeyed,—certain that it was right, since it was hard to yield to it. Only an instant's silence followed Mac's answer, as she stoodlooking down with fingers intertwined, and color varying in her cheeks. A foolish attitude; but Mac thought it a sweet picture of maiden hesitation, and began to hope that a month's wooing was about to end in winning for a lifetime. He deceived himself, however; and cold water fell upon his flame, subduing but by no means quenching it, when Rose looked up with an air of determination, which could not escape eyes that were growing wonderfully far-sighted lately.
"I came in here to beg uncle to advise you to go away soon. You are very patient and forbearing, and I feel it more than I can tell. But it is not good for you to depend on any one so much for your happiness, I think; and I know it is bad for me to feel that I have so much power over a fellow-creature. Go away, Mac, and see if this isn't all a mistake. Don't let a fancy for me change or delay your work, because it may end as suddenly as it began, and then we should both reproach ourselves and each other. Please do! I respect and care for you so much, I can't be happy to take all and give nothing. I try to, but I'm not sure—I want to think—it is too soon to know yet—"
Rose began bravely, but ended in a fluttered sort of way, as she moved toward the door; for Mac's face, though it fell at first, brightened as she went on, and at the last word, uttered almost involuntarily, he actually laughed low to himself, as if this order into exile pleased him much.
"Don't say that you give nothing, when you've just shown me that I'm getting on. I'll go; I'll go at once; and see if absence won't help you 'to think, to know, and to be sure,' as it did me. I wish I could do something more for you; as I can't, good-by."
"Are you goingnow?" and Rose paused in her retreat, to look back with a startled face, as he offered her a badly made pen, and opened the door for her just as Dr. Alec always did; for, in spite of himself, Mac did resemble the best of uncles.
"Not yet; but you seem to be."
Rose turned as red as a poppy, snatched the pen, and flew upstairs, to call herself hard names, as she industriously spoiled all Aunt Plenty's new pocket-handkerchiefs by marking them "A. M. C."
Three days later Mac said "Good-by" in earnest; and no one was surprised that he left somewhat abruptly, such being his way, and a course of lectures by a famous physician the ostensible reason for a trip to L. Uncle Alec deserted most shamefully at the last moment by sending word that he would be at the station to see the traveller off: Aunt Plenty was still in her room; so, when Mac came down from his farewell to her, Rose met him in the hall, as if anxious not to delay him. She was a little afraid of anothertête-à-tête, as she fared so badly at the last, and had assumed a calm and cousinly air, which she flattered herself would plainly show on what terms she wished to part.
Mac apparently understood, and not only took the hint, but surpassed her in cheerful composure; for, merely saying, "Good-by, cousin; write when you feel like it," he shook hands, and walked out of the house as tranquilly as if only a day instead of three months were to pass before they met again. Rose felt as if a sudden shower-bath had chilled her, and was about to retire, saying to herself with disdainful decision,—
"There's no love about it after all; only one of the eccentricities of genius," when a rush of cold air made her turn, to find herself in what appeared to be the embrace of an impetuous overcoat, which wrapt her close for an instant, then vanished as suddenly as it came, leaving her to hide in the sanctum, and confide to Psyche with a tender sort of triumph in her breathless voice,—
"No, no, it isn't genius:thatmust be love!"
Two days after Christmas, a young man of a serious aspect might have been seen entering one of the large churches at L——. Being shown to a seat, he joined in the services with praiseworthy devotion,especially the music, to which he listened with such evident pleasure that a gentleman who sat near by felt moved to address this appreciative stranger after church.
"Fine sermon to-day. Ever heard our minister before, sir?" he began, as they went down the aisle together among the last; for the young man had lingered as if admiring the ancient building.
"Very fine. No, sir, I have never had that pleasure. I've often wished to see this old place, and am not at all disappointed. Your choir, too, is unusually good," answered the stranger, glancing up at several bonnets bobbing about behind the half-drawn curtains above.
"Finest in the city, sir. We pride ourselves on our music, and always have the best. People often come for that alone," and the old gentleman looked as satisfied as if a choir of cherubim and seraphim "continually did cry" in his organ-loft.
"Who is the contralto? That solo was beautifully sung," observed the younger man, pausing to read a tablet in the wall.
"That is Miss Moore. Been here about a year, and is universally admired. Excellent young lady: couldn't do without her. Sings superbly in oratorios. Ever heard her?"
"Never. She came from X——, I believe?"
"Yes; highly recommended. She was brought up by one of the first families there. Campbell is the name. If you come from X——, you doubtless know them."
"I have met them. Good morning." And with bows the gentlemen parted; for at that instant the young man caught sight of a tall lady going down the church-steps, with a devout expression in her fine eyes, and a prayer-book in her hand.
Hastening after her, the serious-minded young man accosted her just as she turned into a quiet street.
"Phebe!"
Only a word, but it wrought a marvellous change; for the devout expression vanished in the drawing of a breath, and the quiet face blossomed suddenly with color, warmth, and "the light that never was on sea or land," as she turned to meet her lover, with an answering word as eloquent as his,—
"Archie!"
"The year is out to-day. I told you I should come. Have you forgotten?"
"No: I knew you'd come."
"And you are glad?"
"How can I help it?"
"You can't: don't try. Come into this little park, and let us talk." And, drawing her hand through his arm, Archie led her into what to other eyes was a very dismal square, with a boarded-up fountain in the middle, sodden grass-plots, and dead leaves dancing in the wintry wind.
But to them it was a summery Paradise; and they walked to and fro in the pale sunshine, quite unconscious that they were objects of interest to severalladies and gentlemen waiting anxiously for their dinner, or yawning over the dull books kept for Sunday reading.
"Are you ready to come home now, Phebe?" asked Archie, tenderly, as he looked at the downcast face beside him, and wondered why all women did not wear delightful little black velvet bonnets, with one deep-red flower against their hair.
"Not yet. I haven't done enough," began Phebe, finding it very hard to keep the resolution made a year ago.
"You have proved that you can support yourself, make friends, and earn a name, if you choose. No one can deny that; and we are all getting proud of you. What more can you ask, my dearest?"
"I don't quite know, but I am very ambitious. I want to be famous, to do something for you all, to make some sacrifice for Rose, and, if I can, to have something to give up for your sake. Let me wait and work longer: I know I haven't earned my welcome yet," pleaded Phebe, so earnestly that her lover knew it would be vain to try and turn her; so wisely contented himself with half, since he could not have the whole.
"Such a proud woman! Yet I love you all the better for it, and understand your feeling. Rose made me see how it seems to you; and I don't wonder that you cannot forget the unkind things that were looked, if not said, by some of my amiable aunts. I'll try to be patient on one condition, Phebe."
"And what is that?"
"You are to let me come sometimes while I wait, and wear this lest you should forget me," he said, pulling a ring from his pocket, and gently drawing a warm, bare hand out of the muff where it lay hidden.
"Yes, Archie, but not here,—not now!" cried Phebe, glancing about her, as if suddenly aware that they were not alone.
"No one can see us here: I thought of that. Give me one happy minute, after this long, long year of waiting," answered Archie, pausing just where the fountain hid them from all eyes, for there were houses only on one side.
Phebe submitted; and never did a plain gold ring slip more easily to its place than the one he put on in such a hurry that cold December day. Then one hand went back into the muff red with the grasp he gave it, and the other to its old place on his arm, with a confiding gesture, as if it had a right there.
"Now I feel sure of you," said Archie, as they went on again, and no one the wiser for that tender transaction behind the ugly pyramid of boards. "Mac wrote me that you were much admired by your church people, and that certain wealthy bachelors evidently had designs on the retiring Miss Moore. I was horribly jealous, but now I defy every man of them."
Phebe smiled with the air of proud humility that was so becoming, and answered briefly,—
"There was no danger: kings could not change me, whether you ever came or not. But Mac should not have told you."
"You shall be revenged on him, then; for, as he told secrets about you, I'll tell you one about him. Phebe, he loves Rose!" And Archie looked as if he expected to make a great sensation with his news.
"I know it." And Phebe laughed at his sudden change of countenance, as he added inquiringly,—
"She told you, then?"
"Not a word. I guessed it from her letters: for lately she says nothing about Mac, and before there was a good deal; so I suspected what the silence meant, and asked no questions."
"Wise girl! then you think she does care for the dear old fellow?"
"Of course she does. Didn't he tell you so?"
"No, he only said when he went away, 'Take care of my Rose, and I'll take care of your Phebe,' and not another thing could I get out of him; forIdid ask questions. He stood by me like a hero, and kept Aunt Jane from driving me stark mad with her 'advice.' I don't forget that, and burned to lend him a hand somewhere; but he begged me to let him manage his wooing in his own way. And from what I see I should say he knew how to do it," added Archie, finding it very delightful to gossip about love affairs with his sweetheart.
"Dear little mistress! how does she behave?" askedPhebe, longing for news, but too grateful to ask at headquarters; remembering how generously Rose had tried to help her, even by silence, the greatest sacrifice a woman can make at such interesting periods.
"Very sweet and shy and charming. I try not to watch: but upon my word I cannot help it sometimes; she is so 'cunning,' as you girls say. When I carry her a letter from Mac she tries so hard not to show how glad she is, that I want to laugh, and tell her I know all about it. But I look as sober as a judge, and as stupid as an owl by daylight; and she enjoys her letter in peace, and thinks I'm so absorbed by my own passion that I'm blind to hers."
"But why did Mac come away? He says lectures brought him, and he goes; but I am sure something else is in his mind, he looks so happy at times. I don't see him very often, but when I do I'm conscious that he isn't the Mac I left a year ago," said Phebe, leading Archie away: for inexorable propriety forbade a longer stay, even if prudence and duty had not given her a reminding nudge; as it was very cold, and afternoon church came in an hour.
"Well, you see Mac was always peculiar, and he cannot even grow up like other fellows. I don't understand him yet, and am sure he's got some plan in his head that no one suspects, unless it is Uncle Alec. Love makes us all cut queer capers; and I've an idea that the Don will distinguish himself in some uncommon way. So be prepared to applaud whatever it is. We owe him that, you know."
"Indeed we do! If Rose ever speaks of him to you, tell her I shall see that he comes to no harm, and she must do the same for my Archie."
That unusual demonstration of tenderness from reserved Phebe very naturally turned the conversation into a more personal channel; and Archie devoted himself to building castles in the air so successfully that they passed the material mansion without either being aware of it.
"Will you come in?" asked Phebe, when the mistake was rectified, and she stood on her own steps looking down at her escort, who had discreetly released her before a pull at the bell caused five heads to pop up at five different windows.
"No, thanks. I shall be at church this afternoon, and the Oratorio this evening. I must be off early in the morning, so let me make the most of precious time, and come home with you to-night as I did before," answered Archie, making his best bow, and quite sure of consent.
"You may," and Phebe vanished, closing the door softly, as if she found it hard to shut out so much love and happiness as that in the heart of the sedate young gentleman, who went briskly down the street, humming a verse of old "Clyde" like a tuneful bass viol.