CHAPTER XX.
_WHAT MAC DID._
Rose, meantime, was trying to find out what the sentiment was withwhich she regarded her cousin Mac. She could not seem to reconcile thecharacter she had known so long with the new one lately shown her; andthe idea of loving the droll, bookish, absent-minded Mac of formertimes appeared quite impossible and absurd: but the new Mac, wideawake, full of talent, ardent and high-minded, was such a surprise toher she felt as if her heart was being won by a stranger, and itbecame her to study him well before yielding to a charm which shecould not deny.
Affection came naturally, and had always been strong for the boy;regard for the studious youth easily deepened to respect for theintegrity of the young man: and now something warmer was growing upwithin her; but at first she could not decide whether it wasadmiration for the rapid unfolding of talent of some sort, or loveanswering to love.
As if to settle that point, Mac sent her on New-Year's day a littlebook plainly bound and modestly entitled "Songs and Sonnets." Afterreading this with ever-growing surprise and delight, Rose never hadanother doubt about the writer's being a poet; for, though she was nocritic, she had read the best authors and knew what was good.Unpretending as it was, this had the true ring, and its verysimplicity showed conscious power; for, unlike so many first attempts,the book was not full of "My Lady," neither did it indulge inSwinburnian convulsions about
"The lilies and languors of peace, The roses and raptures of love;"
or contain any of the highly colored mediaeval word-pictures so much invogue. "My book should smell of pines, and resound with the hum ofinsects," might have been its motto: so sweet and wholesome was itwith a spring-like sort of freshness, which plainly betrayed that theauthor had learned some of Nature's deepest secrets, and possessed theskill to tell them in tuneful words. The songs went ringing throughone's memory long after they were read; and the sonnets were full ofthe subtle beauty, insight, and half-unconscious wisdom, which seem toprove that "genius is divine when young."
Many faults it had, but was so full of promise that it was evident Machad not "kept good company, read good books, loved good things, andcultivated soul and body as faithfully as he could," in vain. It alltold now; for truth and virtue had blossomed into character, and had alanguage of their own more eloquent than the poetry to which they werewhat the fragrance is to the flower. Wiser critics than Rose felt andadmired this; less partial ones could not deny their praise to afirst effort, which seemed as spontaneous and aspiring as a lark'ssong; and, when one or two of these Jupiters had given a nod ofapproval, Mac found himself, not exactly famous, but much talkedabout. One set abused, the other set praised, and the little book wassadly mauled among them: for it was too original to be ignored, andtoo robust to be killed by hard usage; so it came out of the fray nonethe worse, but rather brighter, if any thing, for the friction whichproved the gold genuine.
This took time, however, and Rose could only sit at home reading allthe notices she could get, as well as the literary gossip Phebe senther: for Mac seldom wrote, and never a word about himself; so Phebeskilfully extracted from him in their occasional meetings all thepersonal news her feminine wit could collect, and faithfully reportedit.
It was a little singular that without a word of inquiry on eitherside, the letters of the girls were principally filled with tidings oftheir respective lovers. Phebe wrote about Mac; Rose answered withminute particulars about Archie; and both added hasty items concerningtheir own affairs, as if these were of little consequence.
Phebe got the most satisfaction out of the correspondence; for, soonafter the book appeared, Rose began to want Mac home again, and to berather jealous of the new duties and delights that kept him. She wasimmensely proud of her poet, and had little jubilees over thebeautiful fulfilment of her prophecies; for even Aunt Plenty owned nowwith contrition that "the boy was not a fool." Every word of praisewas read aloud on the house-tops, so to speak, by happy Rose; everyadverse criticism was hotly disputed; and the whole family were in agreat state of pleasant excitement over this unexpectedly successfulfirst flight of the Ugly Duckling, now generally considered by hisrelatives as the most promising young swan of the flock.
Aunt Jane was particularly funny in her new position of mother to acallow poet, and conducted herself like a proud but bewildered henwhen one of her brood takes to the water. She pored over the poemstrying to appreciate them, but quite failing to do so; for life wasall prose to her, and she vainly tried to discover where Mac got histalent from. It was pretty to see the new respect with which shetreated his possessions now; the old books were dusted with a sort ofreverence; scraps of paper laid carefully by lest some immortal versebe lost; and a certain shabby velvet jacket fondly smoothed, when noone was by to smile at the maternal pride which filled her heart, andcaused her once severe countenance to shine with unwonted benignity.
Uncle Mac talked about "my son" with ill-concealed satisfaction, andevidently began to feel as if his boy was going to confer distinctionupon the whole race of Campbell, which had already possessed onepoet. Steve exulted with irrepressible delight, and went aboutquoting "Songs and Sonnets," till he bored his friends dreadfully byhis fraternal raptures.
Archie took it more quietly, and even suggested that it was too soonto crow yet; for the dear old fellow's first burst might be his last,since it was impossible to predict what he would do next. Havingproved that he _could_ write poetry, he might drop it for some newworld to conquer, quoting his favorite Thoreau, who, having made aperfect pencil, gave up the business, and took to writing books withthe sort of indelible ink which grows clearer with time.
The aunts of course had their "views," and enjoyed much propheticgossip, as they wagged their caps over many social cups of tea. Theyounger boys thought it "very jolly, and hoped the Don would go aheadand come to glory as soon as possible," which was all that could beexpected of "Young America," with whom poetry is not usually apassion.
But Dr. Alec was a sight for "sair een:" so full of concentratedcontentment was he. No one but Rose, perhaps, knew how proud andpleased the good man felt at this first small success of his godson;for he had always had high hopes of the boy, because in spite of hisoddities he had such an upright nature, and promising little did much,with the quiet persistence which foretells a manly character. All theromance of the doctor's heart was stirred by this poetic bud ofpromise, and the love that made it bloom so early; for Mac hadconfided his hopes to uncle, finding great consolation and support inhis sympathy and advice. Like a wise man, Dr. Alec left the youngpeople to learn the great lesson in their own way, counselling Mac towork, and Rose to wait, till both were quite certain that their lovewas built on a surer foundation than admiration or youthful romance.
Meantime he went about with a well-worn little book in his pocket,humming bits from a new set of songs, and repeating with great fervorcertain sonnets which seemed to him quite equal, if not superior, toany that Shakspeare ever wrote. As Rose was doing the same thing, theyoften met for a private "read and warble," as they called it; and,while discussing the safe subject of Mac's poetry, both arrived at apretty clear idea of what Mac's reward was to be when he came home.
He seemed in no hurry to do this, however, and continued to astonishhis family by going into society, and coming out brilliantly in thatline. It takes very little to make a lion, as every one knows who hasseen what poor specimens are patted and petted every year, in spite oftheir bad manners, foolish vagaries, and very feeble roaring. Mac didnot want to be lionized, and took it rather scornfully, which onlyadded to the charm that people suddenly discovered about thenineteenth cousin of Thomas Campbell, the poet. He desired to bedistinguished in the best sense of the word, as well as to look so,and thought a little of the polish society gives would not be amiss,remembering Rose's efforts in that line. For her sake he came out ofhis shell, and went about seeing and testing all sorts of people withthose observing eyes of his, which saw so much in spite of theirnear-sightedness. What use he meant to make
of these new experiencesno one knew; for he wrote short letters, and, when questioned,answered with imperturbable patience,--
"Wait till I get through; then I'll come home and talk about it."
So every one waited for the poet, till something happened whichproduced a greater sensation in the family than if all the boys hadsimultaneously taken to rhyming.
Dr. Alec got very impatient, and suddenly announced that he was goingto L. to see after those young people; for Phebe was rapidly singingherself into public favor, with the sweet old ballads which sherendered so beautifully that hearts were touched as well as earsdelighted, and her prospects brightening every month.
"Will you come with me, Rose, and surprise this ambitious pair, whoare getting famous so fast they'll forget their home-keeping friendsif we don't remind them of us now and then?" he said, when he proposedthe trip one wild March morning.
"No, thank you, sir; I'll stay with auntie: that is all I'm fit for;and I should only be in the way among those fine people," answeredRose, snipping away at the plants blooming in the study window.
There was a slight bitterness in her voice and a cloud on her face,which her uncle heard and saw at once, half-guessed the meaning of,and could not rest till he had found out.
"Do you think Phebe and Mac would not care to see you?" he asked,putting down a letter in which Mac gave a glowing account of a concertat which Phebe surpassed herself.
"No, but they must be very busy," began Rose, wishing she had held hertongue.
"Then what is the matter?" persisted Dr. Alec.
Rose did not speak for a moment, and decapitated two fine geraniumswith a reckless slash of her scissors, as if pent-up vexation of somekind must find a vent. It did in words also; for, as if quite againsther will, she exclaimed impetuously,--
"The truth is, I'm jealous of them both!"
"Bless my soul! what now?" ejaculated the doctor, in great surprise.
Rose put down her watering-pot and shears, came and stood before himwith her hands nervously twisted together, and said, just as she usedto do when she was a little girl confessing some misdeed,--
"Uncle, I must tell you; for I've been getting very envious,discontented, and bad lately. No, don't be good to me yet; for youdon't know how little I deserve it. Scold me well, and make me see howwicked I am."
"I will as soon as I know what I am to scold about. Unburden yourself,child, and let me see all your iniquity; for, if you begin by beingjealous of Mac and Phebe, I'm prepared for any thing," said Dr. Alec,leaning back as if nothing could surprise him now.
"But I am not jealous in that way, sir. I mean I want to be or dosomething splendid as well as they. I can't write poetry or sing likea bird; but I _should_ think I might have my share of glory in someway. I thought perhaps I could paint, and I've tried, but I can onlycopy: I've no power to invent lovely things, and I'm so discouraged;for that is my one accomplishment. Do you think I have _any_ gift thatcould be cultivated, and do me credit like theirs?" she asked sowistfully that her uncle felt for a moment as if he never couldforgive the fairies, who endow babies in their cradles, for being soniggardly to his girl. But one look into the sweet, open face beforehim, reminded him that the good elves _had_ been very generous, and heanswered cheerfully,--
"Yes, I do; for you have one of the best and noblest gifts a woman canpossess. Music and poetry are fine things; and I don't wonder you wantthem, or that you envy the pleasant fame they bring. I've felt justso, and been ready to ask why it didn't please heaven to be moregenerous to some people; so you needn't be ashamed to tell me allabout it."
"I know I ought to be contented, but I'm not. My life is verycomfortable, but so quiet and uneventful I get tired of it, and wantto launch out as the others have, and do something, or at least try.I'm glad you think it isn't very bad of me, and I'd like to know whatmy gift is," said Rose, looking less despondent already.
"The art of living for others so patiently and sweetly that we enjoyit as we do the sunshine, and are not half grateful enough for thegreat blessing."
"It is very kind of you to say so, but I think I'd like a little funand fame, nevertheless," and Rose did not look as thankful as sheought.
"Very natural, dear; but the fun and the fame do not last; while thememory of a real helper is kept green long after poetry is forgottenand music silent. Can't you believe that, and be happy?"
"But I do so little, nobody sees or cares, and I don't feel as if Iwas really of any use," sighed Rose, thinking of the long, dullwinter, full of efforts that seemed fruitless.
"Sit here, and let us see if you really do very little, and if no onecares," and, drawing her to his knee, Dr. Alec went on, telling offeach item on one of the fingers of the soft hand he held.
"First, an infirm old aunt is kept very happy by the patient, cheerfulcare of this good-for-nothing niece. Secondly, a crotchety uncle, forwhom she reads, runs, writes, and sews so willingly that he cannot geton without her. Thirdly, various relations who are helped in variousways. Fourthly, one dear friend never forgotten, and a certain cousincheered by the praise which is more to him than the loudest blastFame could blow. Fifthly, several young girls find her an example ofmany good works and ways. Sixthly, a motherless baby is cared for astenderly as if she was a little sister. Seventhly, half a dozen poorladies made comfortable; and, lastly, some struggling boys and girlswith artistic longings are put into a pleasant room furnished withcasts, studies, easels, and all manner of helpful things, not tomention free lessons given by this same idle girl, who now sits uponmy knee owning to herself that her gift _is_ worth having after all."
"Indeed, I am! Uncle, I'd no idea I had done so many things to pleaseyou, or that any one guessed how hard I try to fill my place usefully.I've learned to do without gratitude: now I'll learn not to care forpraise, but to be contented to do my best, and have only God know."
"He knows, and He rewards in His own good time. I think a quiet lifelike this often makes itself felt in better ways than one that theworld sees and applauds; and some of the noblest are never known tillthey end, leaving a void in many hearts. Yours may be one of these ifyou choose to make it so, and no one will be prouder of this successthan I, unless it be--Mac."
The clouds were quite gone now, and Rose was looking straight into heruncle's face with a much happier expression, when that last word madeit color brightly, and the eyes glance away for a second. Then theycame back full of a tender sort of resolution, as she said,--
"That will be the reward I work for," and rose, as if ready to be upand doing with renewed courage.
But her uncle held her long enough to ask quite soberly, though hiseyes laughed,--
"Shall I tell him that?"
"No, sir, please don't! When he is tired of other people's praise, hewill come home, and then--I'll see what I can do for him," answeredRose, slipping away to her work with the shy, happy look thatsometimes came to give her face the charm it needed.
"He is such a thorough fellow he never is in a hurry to go from onething to another. An excellent habit, but a trifle trying to impatientpeople like me," said the doctor, and picking up Dulce, who sat uponthe rug with her dolly, he composed his feelings by tossing her tillshe crowed with delight.
Rose heartily echoed that last remark, but said nothing aloud, onlyhelped her uncle off with dutiful alacrity, and, when he was gone,began to count the days till his return, wishing she had decided to gotoo.
He wrote often, giving excellent accounts of the "great creatures," asSteve called Phebe and Mac, and seemed to find so much to do invarious ways that the second week of absence was nearly over before heset a day for his return, promising to astonish them with the accountof his adventures.
Rose felt as if something splendid was going to happen, and set heraffairs in order, so that the approaching crisis might find her fullyprepared. She had "found out" now, was quite sure, and put away alldoubts and fears to be ready to welcome home the cousin whom she wassure uncle would bring as her reward. She was thinking of thi
s oneday, as she got out her paper to write a long letter to poor AuntClara, who pined for news far away there in Calcutta.
Something in the task reminded her of that other lover whose wooingended so tragically, and opening the little drawer of keepsakes, shetook out the blue bracelet, feeling that she owed Charlie a tenderthought in the midst of her new happiness; for of late she _had_forgotten him.
She had worn the trinket hidden under her black sleeve for a long timeafter his death, with the regretful constancy one sometimes shows indoing some little kindness all too late. But her arm had grown tooround to hide the ornament, the forget-me-nots had fallen one by one,the clasp had broken; and that autumn she laid the bracelet away,acknowledging that she had outgrown the souvenir as well as thesentiment that gave it.
She looked at it in silence for a moment, then put it softly back,and, shutting the drawer, took up the little gray book which was herpride, thinking as she contrasted the two men and their influence onher life,--the one sad and disturbing, the other sweet andinspiring,--"Charlie's was passion: Mac's is love."
"Rose! Rose!" called a shrill voice, rudely breaking the pensivereverie, and with a start she shut the desk exclaiming as she ran tothe door,--
"They have come! They have come!"