Rose in Bloom

"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 living one," 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 it really trouble 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 forget me. 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."

"When did you 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 me altered 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 stood looking 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 going now?" 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 another tête-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: that must be love!"

CHAPTER XIX.

BEHIND THE FOUNTAIN

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 several ladies 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; for I did 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?" asked Phebe, 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.

"'Oh, let our mingling voices riseIn grateful rapture to the skies,Where love has had its birth.Let songs of joy this day declareThat spirits come their bliss to shareWith all the sons of earth.'"

That afternoon Miss Moore sang remarkably well, and that evening quite electrified even her best friends by the skill and power with which she rendered "Inflammatus" in the oratorio.

"If that is not genius, I should like to know what it is?" said one young man to another, as they went out just before the general crush at the end.

"Some genius and a great deal of love. They are a grand team, and, when well driven, astonish the world by the time they make in the great race," answered the second young man, with the look of one inclined to try his hand at driving that immortal span.

"Dare say you are right. Can't stop now: she's waiting for me. Don't sit up, Mac."

"The gods go with you, Archie."

And the cousins separated: one to write till midnight, the other to bid his Phebe good-by, little dreaming how unexpectedly and successfully she was to earn her welcome home.

CHAPTER XX.

WHAT MAC DID

Rose, meantime, was trying to find out what the sentiment was with which she regarded her cousin Mac. She could not seem to reconcile the character she had known so long with the new one lately shown her; and the idea of loving the droll, bookish, absent-minded Mac of former times appeared quite impossible and absurd: but the new Mac, wide awake, full of talent, ardent and high-minded, was such a surprise to her she felt as if her heart was being won by a stranger, and it became her to study him well before yielding to a charm which she could not deny.

Affection came naturally, and had always been strong for the boy; regard for the studious youth easily deepened to respect for the integrity of the young man: and now something warmer was growing up within her; but at first she could not decide whether it was admiration for the rapid unfolding of talent of some sort, or love answering to love.

As if to settle that point, Mac sent her on New-Year's day a little book plainly bound and modestly entitled "Songs and Sonnets." After reading this with ever-growing surprise and delight, Rose never had another doubt about the writer's being a poet; for, though she was no critic, she had read the best authors and knew what was good. Unpretending as it was, this had the true ring, and its very simplicity showed conscious power; for, unlike so many first attempts, the book was not full of "My Lady," neither did it indulge in Swinburnian convulsions about or contain any of the highly colored mediæval word-pictures so much in vogue. "My book should smell of pines, and resound with the hum of insects," might have been its motto: so sweet and wholesome was it with a spring-like sort of freshness, which plainly betrayed that the author had learned some of Nature's deepest secrets, and possessed the skill to tell them in tuneful words. The songs went ringing through one's memory long after they were read; and the sonnets were full of the subtle beauty, insight, and half-unconscious wisdom, which seem to prove that "genius is divine when young."

"The lilies and languors of peace,The roses and raptures of love;"

Many faults it had, but was so full of promise that it was evident Mac had not "kept good company, read good books, loved good things, and cultivated soul and body as faithfully as he could," in vain. It all told now; for truth and virtue had blossomed into character, and had a language of their own more eloquent than the poetry to which they were what the fragrance is to the flower. Wiser critics than Rose felt and admired this; less partial ones could not deny their praise to a first effort, which seemed as spontaneous and aspiring as a lark's song; and, when one or two of these Jupiters had given a nod of approval, Mac found himself, not exactly famous, but much talked about. One set abused, the other set praised, and the little book was sadly mauled among them: for it was too original to be ignored, and too robust to be killed by hard usage; so it came out of the fray none the worse, but rather brighter, if any thing, for the friction which proved the gold genuine.

This took time, however, and Rose could only sit at home reading all the notices she could get, as well as the literary gossip Phebe sent her: for Mac seldom wrote, and never a word about himself; so Phebe skilfully extracted from him in their occasional meetings all the personal news her feminine wit could collect, and faithfully reported it.

It was a little singular that without a word of inquiry on either side, the letters of the girls were principally filled with tidings of their respective lovers. Phebe wrote about Mac; Rose answered with minute particulars about Archie; and both added hasty items concerning their own affairs, as if these were of little consequence.

Phebe got the most satisfaction out of the correspondence; for, soon after the book appeared, Rose began to want Mac home again, and to be rather jealous of the new duties and delights that kept him. She was immensely proud of her poet, and had little jubilees over the beautiful fulfilment of her prophecies; for even Aunt Plenty owned now with contrition that "the boy was not a fool." Every word of praise was read aloud on the house-tops, so to speak, by happy Rose; every adverse criticism was hotly disputed; and the whole family were in a great state of pleasant excitement over this unexpectedly successful first flight of the Ugly Duckling, now generally considered by his relatives as the most promising young swan of the flock.