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EIGHT COUSINS
By Louisa M. Alcott
Preface
The Author is quite aware of the defects of this little story, many of
which were unavoidable, as it first appeared serially. But, as Uncle
Alec's experiment was intended to amuse the young folks, rather than
suggest educational improvements for the consideration of the elders,
she trusts that these shortcomings will be overlooked by the friends of
the Eight Cousins, and she will try to make amends in a second volume,
which shall attempt to show The Rose in Bloom.
L.M.A.
Chapter 1--Two Girls
Rose sat all alone in the big best parlor, with her little handkerchief
laid ready to catch the first tear, for she was thinking of her
troubles, and a shower was expected. She had retired to this room as a
good place in which to be miserable; for it was dark and still, full of
ancient furniture, sombre curtains, and hung all around with portraits
of solemn old gentlemen in wigs, severe-nosed ladies in top-heavy caps,
and staring children in little bob-tailed coats or short-waisted frocks.
It was an excellent place for woe; and the fitful spring rain that
pattered on the window-pane seemed to sob, “Cry away: I'm with you.”
Rose really did have some cause to be sad; for she had no mother, and
had lately lost her father also, which left her no home but this with
her great-aunts. She had been with them only a week, and, though the
dear old ladies had tried their best to make her happy, they had not
succeeded very well, for she was unlike any child they had ever seen,
and they felt very much as if they had the care of a low-spirited
butterfly.
They had given her the freedom of the house, and for a day or two
she had amused herself roaming all over it, for it was a capital old
mansion, and was full of all manner of odd nooks, charming rooms, and
mysterious passages. Windows broke out in unexpected places, little
balconies overhung the garden most romantically, and there was a long
upper hall full of curiosities from all parts of the world; for the
Campbells had been sea-captains for generations.
Aunt Plenty had even allowed Rose to rummage in her great china closet
a spicy retreat, rich in all the “goodies” that children love; but Rose
seemed to care little for these toothsome temptations; and when that
hope failed, Aunt Plenty gave up in despair.
Gentle Aunt Peace had tried all sorts of pretty needle-work, and planned
a doll's wardrobe that would have won the heart of even an older child.
But Rose took little interest in pink satin hats and tiny hose, though
she sewed dutifully till her aunt caught her wiping tears away with the
train of a wedding-dress, and that discovery put an end to the sewing
society.
Then both old ladies put their heads together and picked out the model
child of the neighbourhood to come and play with their niece. But
Ariadne Blish was the worst failure of all, for Rose could not bear the
sight of her, and said she was so like a wax doll she longed to give
her a pinch and see if she would squeak. So prim little Ariadne was sent
home, and the exhausted aunties left Rose to her own devices for a day
or two.
Bad weather and a cold kept her in-doors, and she spent most of her time
in the library where her father's books were stored. Here she read a
great deal, cried a little, and dreamed many of the innocent bright
dreams in which imaginative children find such comfort and delight. This
suited her better than anything else, but it was not good for her, and
she grew pale, heavy-eyed and listless, though Aunt Plenty gave her iron
enough to make a cooking-stove, and Aunt Peace petted her like a poodle.
Seeing this, the poor aunties racked their brains for a new amusement
and determined to venture a bold stroke, though not very hopeful of its
success. They said nothing to Rose about their plan for this Saturday
afternoon, but let her alone till the time came for the grand surprise,
little dreaming that the odd child would find pleasure for herself in a
most unexpected quarter.
Before she had time to squeeze out a single tear a sound broke the
stillness, making her prick up her ears. It was only the soft twitter
of a bird, but it seemed to be a peculiarly gifted bird, for while she
listened the soft twitter changed to a lively whistle, then a trill, a
coo, a chirp, and ended in a musical mixture of all the notes, as if the
bird burst out laughing. Rose laughed also, and, forgetting her woes,
jumped up, saying eagerly,
“It is a mocking-bird. Where is it?”
Running down the long hall, she peeped out at both doors, but saw
nothing feathered except a draggle-tailed chicken under a burdock leaf.
She listened again, and the sound seemed to be in the house. Away she
went, much excited by the chase, and following the changeful song, it
led her to the china-closet door.
“In there? How funny!” she said. But when she entered, not a bird
appeared except the everlastingly kissing swallows on the Canton china
that lined the shelves. All of a sudden Rose's face brightened, and,
softly opening the slide, she peered into the kitchen. But the music
had stopped, and all she saw was a girl in a blue apron scrubbing the
hearth. Rose stared about her for a minute, and then asked abruptly,
“Did you hear that mocking-bird?”
“I should call it a phebe-bird,” answered the girl, looking up with a
twinkle in her black eyes.
“Where did it go?”
“It is here still.”
“Where?”
“In my throat. Do you want to hear it?”
“Oh, yes! I'll come in.” And Rose crept through the slide to the wide
shelf on the other side, being too hurried and puzzled to go round by
the door.
The girl wiped her hands, crossed her feet on the little island of
carpet where she was stranded in a sea of soap-suds, and then, sure
enough, out of her slender throat came the swallow's twitter, the
robin's whistle, the blue-jay's call, the thrush's song, the wood-dove's
coo, and many another familiar note, all ending as before with the
musical ecstacy of a bobolink singing and swinging among the meadow
grass on a bright June day.
Rose was so astonished that she nearly fell off her perch, and when the
little concert was over clapped her hands delightedly.
“Oh, it was lovely! Who taught you?”
“The birds,” answered the girl, with a smile, as she fell to work again.
“It is very wonderful! I can sing, but nothing half so fine as that.
What is your name, please?”
“Phebe Moore.”
“I've heard of phebe-birds; but I don't believe the real ones could do
that,” laughed Rose, adding, as she watched with interest the scattering
of dabs of soft soap over the bricks, “May I stay and see you work? It
is very lonely in the parlor.”
“Yes, indeed, if you want to,” answered Phebe, wringing out her cloth in
a capable sort of way that impressed Rose very much.
“It must be fun to swash the water round and dig out the soap. I'd love
to do it, only aunt wouldn't like it, I suppose,” said Rose, quite taken
with the new employment.
“You'd soon get tired, so you'd better keep tidy and look on.”
“I suppose you help your mother a good deal?”
“I haven't got any folks.”
“Why, where do you live, then?”
“I'm going to live here, I hope. Debby wants some one to help round, and
I've come to try for a week.”
“I hope you will stay, for it is very dull,” said Rose, who had taken a
sudden fancy to this girl, who sung like a bird and worked like a woman.
“Hope I shall; for I'm fifteen now, and old enough to earn my own
living. You have come to stay a spell, haven't you?” asked Phebe,
looking up at her guest and wondering how life could be dull to a girl
who wore a silk frock, a daintily frilled apron, a pretty locket, and
had her hair tied up with a velvet snood.
“Yes, I shall stay till my uncle comes. He is my guardian now, and I
don't know what he will do with me. Have you a guardian?”
“My sakes, no! I was left on the poor-house steps a little mite of
a baby, and Miss Rogers took a liking to me, so I've been there ever
since. But she is dead now, and I take care of myself.”
“How interesting! It is like Arabella Montgomery in the 'Gypsy's Child.'
Did you ever read that sweet story?” asked Rose, who was fond of tales
of found-lings, and had read many.
“I don't have any books to read, and all the spare time I get I run off
into the woods; that rests me better than stories,” answered Phebe, as
she finished one job and began on another.
Rose watched her as she got out a great pan of beans to look over, and
wondered how it would seem to have life all work and no play. Presently
Phebe seemed to think it was her turn to ask questions, and said,
wistfully,
“You've had lots of schooling, I suppose?”
“Oh, dear me, yes! I've been at boarding school nearly a year, and I'm
almost dead with lessons. The more I got, the more Miss Power gave me,
and I was so miserable that I 'most cried my eyes out. Papa never gave
me hard things to do, and he always taught me so pleasantly I loved to
study. Oh, we were so happy and so fond of one another! But now he is
gone, and I am left all alone.”
The tear that would not come when Rose sat waiting for it came now of
its own accord two of them in fact and rolled down her cheeks, telling
the tale of love and sorrow better than any words could do it.
For a minute there was no sound in the kitchen but the little daughter's
sobbing and the sympathetic patter of the rain. Phebe stopped rattling
her beans from one pan to another, and her eyes were full of pity as
they rested on the curly head bent down on Rose's knee, for she saw that
the heart under the pretty locket ached with its loss, and the dainty
apron was used to dry sadder tears than any she had ever shed.
Somehow, she felt more contented with her brown calico gown and
blue-checked pinafore; envy changed to compassion; and if she had dared
she would have gone and hugged her afflicted guest.
Fearing that might not be considered proper, she said, in her cheery
voice,
“I'm sure you ain't all alone with such a lot of folks belonging to
you, and all so rich and clever. You'll be petted to pieces, Debby says,
because you are the only girl in the family.”
Phebe's last words made Rose smile in spite of her tears, and she looked
out from behind her apron with an April face, saying in a tone of comic
distress,
“That's one of my troubles! I've got six aunts, and they all want
me, and I don't know any of them very well. Papa named this place the
Aunt-hill, and now I see why.”
Phebe laughed with her as she said encouragingly,
“Everyone calls it so, and it's a real good name, for all the Mrs.
Campbells live handy by, and keep coming up to see the old ladies.”
“I could stand the aunts, but there are dozens of cousins, dreadful
boys all of them, and I detest boys! Some of them came to see me last
Wednesday, but I was lying down, and when auntie came to call me I went
under the quilt and pretended to be asleep. I shall have to see them
some time, but I do dread it so.” And Rose gave a shudder, for, having
lived alone with her invalid father, she knew nothing of boys, and
considered them a species of wild animal.
“Oh! I guess you'll like 'em. I've seen 'em flying round when they
come over from the Point, sometimes in their boats and sometimes
on horseback. If you like boats and horses, you'll enjoy yourself
first-rate.”
“But I don't! I'm afraid of horses, and boats make me ill, and I hate
boys!” And poor Rose wrung her hands at the awful prospect before her.
One of these horrors alone she could have borne, but all together were
too much for her, and she began to think of a speedy return to the
detested school.
Phebe laughed at her woe till the beans danced in the pan, but tried to
comfort her by suggesting a means of relief.
“Perhaps your uncle will take you away where there ain't any boys. Debby
says he is a real kind man, and always bring heaps of nice things when
he comes.”
“Yes, but you see that is another trouble, for I don't know Uncle Alec
at all. He hardly ever came to see us, though he sent me pretty things
very often. Now I belong to him, and shall have to mind him, till I am
eighteen. I may not like him a bit, and I fret about it all the time.”
“Well, I wouldn't borrow trouble, but have a real good time. I'm sure I
should think I was in clover if I had folks and money, and nothing to
do but enjoy myself,” began Phebe, but got no further, for a sudden rush
and tumble outside made them both jump.
“It's thunder,” said Phebe.
“It's a circus!” cried Rose, who from her elevated perch had caught
glimpses of a gay cart of some sort and several ponies with flying manes
and tails.
The sound died away, and the girls were about to continue their
confidences when old Debby appeared, looking rather cross and sleepy
after her nap.
“You are wanted in the parlor, Miss Rose.”
“Has anybody come?”
“Little girls shouldn't ask questions, but do as they are bid,” was all
Debby would answer.
“I do hope it isn't Aunt Myra; she always scares me out of my wits
asking how my cough is, and groaning over me as if I was going to die,”
said Rose, preparing to retire the way she came, for the slide, being
cut for the admission of bouncing Christmas turkeys and puddings, was
plenty large enough for a slender girl.
“Guess you'll wish it was Aunt Myra when you see who has come. Don't
never let me catch you coming into my kitchen that way again, or I'll
shut you up in the big b'iler,” growled Debby, who thought it her duty
to snub children on all occasions.