_WHICH WAS IT?_
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 fitting
accompaniment 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 I _shall_ like 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.
"That _would_ be 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,'"
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 they sent 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 a splendid 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 was _so_ lovely! 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: I _knew_ you 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. I _must_ tell 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 of his 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.
"_I_ do 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 him for
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, that _he_ could 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! what _shall_ I 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.
"I _have_ found 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 words wrought 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.
"It _is_ a 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, _I_ will be your hero if a mortal man can, even though
I have to work and wait for years. I'll _make_ you 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; I _must_ try it, and I _will_ succeed!"
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 to _make_
her 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 to bed, 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 "_make_ her 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 weather set
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 a _tête-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 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!"