_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
"The lilies and languors of peace,
The roses and raptures of love;"
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."
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.
Aunt Jane was particularly funny in her new position of mother to a
callow poet, and conducted herself like a proud but bewildered hen
when one of her brood takes to the water. She pored over the poems
trying to appreciate them, but quite failing to do so; for life was
all prose to her, and she vainly tried to discover where Mac got his
talent from. It was pretty to see the new respect with which she
treated his possessions now; the old books were dusted with a sort of
reverence; scraps of paper laid carefully by lest some immortal verse
be lost; and a certain shabby velvet jacket fondly smoothed, when no
one was by to smile at the maternal pride which filled her heart, and
caused her once severe countenance to shine with unwonted benignity.
Uncle Mac talked about "my son" with ill-concealed satisfaction, and
evidently began to feel as if his boy was going to confer distinction
upon the whole race of Campbell, which had already possessed one
poet. Steve exulted with irrepressible delight, and went about
quoting "Songs and Sonnets," till he bored his friends dreadfully by
his fraternal raptures.
Archie took it more quietly, and even suggested that it was too soon
to 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. Having
proved that he _could_ write poetry, he might drop it for some new
world to conquer, quoting his favorite Thoreau, who, having made a
perfect pencil, gave up the business, and took to writing books with
the sort of indelible ink which grows clearer with time.
The aunts of course had their "views," and enjoyed much prophetic
gossip, as they wagged their caps over many social cups of tea. The
younger boys thought it "very jolly, and hoped the Don would go ahead
and come to glory as soon as possible," which was all that could be
expected of "Young America," with whom poetry is not usually a
passion.
But Dr. Alec was a sight for "sair een:" so full of concentrated
contentment was he. No one but Rose, perhaps, knew how proud and
pleased 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 his
oddities he had such an upright nature, and promising little did much,
with the quiet persistence which foretells a manly character. All the
romance of the doctor's heart was stirred by this poetic bud of
promise, and the love that made it bloom so early; for Mac had
confided his hopes to uncle, finding great consolation and support in
his sympathy and advice. Like a wise man, Dr. Alec left the young
people to learn the great lesson in their own way, counselling Mac to
work, and Rose to wait, till both were quite certain that their love
was 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 fervor
certain sonnets which seemed to him quite equal, if not superior, to
any that Shakspeare ever wrote. As Rose was doing the same thing, they
often met for a private "read and warble," as they called it; and,
while discussing the safe subject of Mac's poetry, both arrived at a
pretty 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 astonish
his family by going into society, and coming out brilliantly in that
line. It takes very little to make a lion, as every one knows who has
seen what poor specimens are patted and petted every year, in spite of
their bad manners, foolish vagaries, and very feeble roaring. Mac did
not want to be lionized, and took it rather scornfully, which only
added to the charm that people suddenly discovered about the
nineteenth cousin of Thomas Campbell, the poet. He desired to be
distinguished 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 of
his shell, and went about seeing and testing all sorts of people with
those observing eyes of his, which saw so much in spite of their
near-sightedness. What use he meant to make of these new experiences
no 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 which
produced a greater sensation in the family than if all the boys had
simultaneously taken to rhyming.
Dr. Alec got very impatient, and suddenly announced that he was going
to L. to see after those young people; for Phebe was rapidly singing
herself into public favor, with the sweet old ballads which she
rendered so beautifully that hearts were touched as well as ears
delighted, and her prospects brightening every month.
"Will you come with me, Rose, and surprise this ambitious pair, who
are getting famous so fast they'll forget their home-keeping friends
if we don't remind them of us now and then?" he said, when he proposed
the 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," answered
Rose, 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 concert
at which Phebe surpassed herself.
"No, but they must be very busy," began Rose, wishing she had held her
tongue.
"Then what is the matter?" persisted Dr. Alec.
Rose did not speak for a moment, and decapitated two fine geraniums
with a reckless slash of her scissors, as if pent-up vexation of some
kind must find a vent. It did in words also; for, as if quite against
her 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 him
with her hands nervously twisted together, and said, just as she used
to 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 you
don't know how little I deserve it. Scold me well, and make me see how
wicked 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 being
jealous 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 do
something splendid as well as they. I can't write poetry or sing like
a bird; but I _should_ think I might have my share of glory in some
way. I thought perhaps I could paint, and I've tried, but I can only
copy: 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 that
could be cultivated, and do me credit like theirs?" she asked so
wistfully that her uncle felt for a moment as if he never could
forgive the fairies, who endow babies in their cradles, for being so
niggardly to his girl. But one look into the sweet, open face before
him, reminded him that the good elves _had_ been very generous, and he
answered cheerfully,--
"Yes, I do; for you have one of the best and noblest gifts a woman can
possess. Music and poetry are fine things; and I don't wonder you want
them, or that you envy the pleasant fame they bring. I've felt just
so, and been ready to ask why it didn't please heaven to be more
generous to some people; so you needn't be ashamed to tell me all
about it."
"I know I ought to be contented, but I'm not. My life is very
comfortable, but so quiet and uneventful I get tired of it, and want
to 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 what
my gift is," said Rose, looking less despondent already.
"The art of living for others so patiently and sweetly that we enjoy
it as we do the sunshine, and are not half grateful enough for the
great blessing."
"It is very kind of you to say so, but I think I'd like a little fun
and fame, nevertheless," and Rose did not look as thankful as she
ought.
"Very natural, dear; but the fun and the fame do not last; while the
memory of a real helper is kept green long after poetry is forgotten
and 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 I
was really of any use," sighed Rose, thinking of the long, dull
winter, full of efforts that seemed fruitless.
"Sit here, and let us see if you really do very little, and if no one
cares," and, drawing her to his knee, Dr. Alec went on, telling off
each item on one of the fingers of the soft hand he held.
"First, an infirm old aunt is kept very happy by the patient, cheerful
care of this good-for-nothing niece. Secondly, a crotchety uncle, for
whom she reads, runs, writes, and sews so willingly that he cannot get
on without her. Thirdly, various relations who are helped in various
ways. Fourthly, one dear friend never forgotten, and a certain cousin
cheered by the praise which is more to him than the loudest blast
Fame could blow. Fifthly, several young girls find her an example of
many good works and ways. Sixthly, a motherless baby is cared for as
tenderly as if she was a little sister. Seventhly, half a dozen poor
ladies made comfortable; and, lastly, some struggling boys and girls
with artistic longings are put into a pleasant room furnished with
casts, studies, easels, and all manner of helpful things, not to
mention free lessons given by this same idle girl, who now sits upon
my 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 please
you, 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 for
praise, 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 life
like this often makes itself felt in better ways than one that the
world sees and applauds; and some of the noblest are never known till
they end, leaving a void in many hearts. Yours may be one of these if
you choose to make it so, and no one will be prouder of this success
than I, unless it be--Mac."
The clouds were quite gone now, and Rose was looking straight into her
uncle's face with a much happier expression, when that last word made
it color brightly, and the eyes glance away for a second. Then they
came 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 up
and doing with renewed courage.
But her uncle held her long enough to ask quite soberly, though his
eyes laughed,--
"Shall I tell him that?"
"No, sir, please don't! When he is tired of other people's praise, he
will come home, and then--I'll see what I can do for him," answered
Rose, slipping away to her work with the shy, happy look that
sometimes came to give her face the charm it needed.
"He is such a thorough fellow he never is in a hurry to go from one
thing to another. An excellent habit, but a trifle trying to impatient
people like me," said the doctor, and picking up Dulce, who sat upon
the rug with her dolly, he composed his feelings by tossing her till
she crowed with delight.
Rose heartily echoed that last remark, but said nothing aloud, only
helped her uncle off with dutiful alacrity, and, when he was gone,
began to count the days till his return, wishing she had decided to go
too.
He wrote often, giving excellent accounts of the "great creatures," as
Steve called Phebe and Mac, and seemed to find so much to do in
various ways that the second week of absence was nearly over before he
set a day for his return, promising to astonish them with the account
of his adventures.
Rose felt as if something splendid was going to happen, and set her
affairs in order, so that the approaching crisis might find her fully
prepared. She had "found out" now, was quite sure, and put away all
doubts and fears to be ready to welcome home the cousin whom she was
sure uncle would bring as her reward. She was thinking of this one
day, as she got out her paper to write a long letter to poor Aunt
Clara, who pined for news far away there in Calcutta.
Something in the task reminded her of that other lover whose wooing
ended so tragically, and opening the little drawer of keepsakes, she
took out the blue bracelet, feeling that she owed Charlie a tender
thought 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 time
after his death, with the regretful constancy one sometimes shows in
doing some little kindness all too late. But her arm had grown too
round 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 the
sentiment 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 her
pride, thinking as she contrasted the two men and their influence on
her life,--the one sad and disturbing, the other sweet and
inspiring,--"Charlie's was passion: Mac's is love."
"Rose! Rose!" called a shrill voice, rudely breaking the pensive
reverie, and with a start she shut the desk exclaiming as she ran to
the door,--
"They have come! They have come!"