Rose's sacrifice was a failure in one respect, for, though the elders
loved her the better for it, and showed that they did, the boys were not
inspired with the sudden respect which she had hoped for. In fact, her
feelings were much hurt by overhearing Archie say that he couldn't see
any sense in it; and the Prince added another blow by pronouncing her
“the queerest chicken ever seen.”
It is apt to be so, and it is hard to bear; for, though we do not want
trumpets blown, we do like to have our little virtues appreciated, and
cannot help feeling disappointed if they are not.
A time soon came, however, when Rose, quite unconsciously, won not only
the respect of her cousins, but their gratitude and affection likewise.
Soon after the Island episode, Mac had a sunstroke, and was very ill
for some time. It was so sudden that everyone was startled, and for some
days the boy's life was in danger. He pulled through, however; and then,
just as the family were rejoicing, a new trouble appeared which cast a
gloom over them all.
Poor Mac's eyes gave out; and well they might, for he had abused them,
and never being very strong, they suffered doubly now.
No one dared to tell him the dark predictions of the great oculist who
came to look at them, and the boy tried to be patient, thinking that a
few weeks of rest would repair the overwork of several years.
He was forbidden to look at a book, and as that was the one thing he
most delighted in, it was a terrible affliction to the Worm. Everyone
was very ready to read to him, and at first the lads contended for this
honour. But as week after week went by, and Mac was still condemned to
idleness and a darkened room, their zeal abated, and one after the other
fell off. It was hard for the active fellows, right in the midst of
their vacation; and nobody blamed them when they contented themselves
with brief calls, running of errands, and warm expressions of sympathy.
The elders did their best, but Uncle Mac was a busy man, Aunt Jane's
reading was of a funereal sort, impossible to listen to long, and the
other aunties were all absorbed in their own cares, though they supplied
the boy with every delicacy they could invent.
Uncle Alec was a host in himself, but he could not give all his time to
the invalid; and if it had not been for Rose, the afflicted Worm
would have fared ill. Her pleasant voice suited him, her patience was
unfailing, her time of no apparent value, and her eager good-will was
very comforting.
The womanly power of self-devotion was strong in the child, and she
remained faithfully at her post when all the rest dropped away. Hour
after hour she sat in the dusky room, with one ray of light on her book,
reading to the boy, who lay with shaded eyes silently enjoying the only
pleasure that lightened the weary days. Sometimes he was peevish and
hard to please, sometimes he growled because his reader could not manage
the dry books he wished to hear, and sometimes he was so despondent that
her heart ached to see him. Through all these trials Rose persevered,
using all her little arts to please him. When he fretted, she was
patient; when he growled, she ploughed bravely through the hard pages
not dry to her in one sense, for quiet tears dropped on them now and
then; and when Mac fell into a despairing mood, she comforted him with
every hopeful word she dared to offer.
He said little, but she knew he was grateful, for she suited him better
than anyone else. If she was late, he was impatient; when she had to go,
he seemed forlorn; and when the tired head ached worst, she could always
soothe him to sleep, crooning the old songs her father used to love.
“I don't know what I should do without that child,” Aunt Jane often
said.
“She's worth all those racketing fellows put together,” Mac would add,
fumbling about to discover if the little chair was ready for her coming.
That was the sort of reward Rose liked, the thanks that cheered her;
and whenever she grew very tired, one look at the green shade, the curly
head so restless on the pillow, and the poor groping hands, touched her
tender heart and put new spirit into the weary voice.
She did not know how much she was learning, both from the books she read
and the daily sacrifices she made. Stories and poetry were her delight,
but Mac did not care for them; and since his favourite Greeks and Romans
were forbidden, he satisfied himself with travels, biographies, and the
history of great inventions or discoveries. Rose despised this taste
at first, but soon got interested in Livingstone's adventures, Hobson's
stirring life in India, and the brave trials and triumphs of Watt and
Arkwright, Fulton, and “Palissy, the Potter.” The true, strong books
helped the dreamy girl; her faithful service and sweet patience touched
and won the boy; and long afterward both learned to see how useful those
seemingly hard and weary hours had been to them.
One bright morning, as Rose sat down to begin a fat volume entitled
“History of the French Revolution,” expecting to come to great grief
over the long names, Mac, who was lumbering about the room like a blind
bear, stopped her by asking abruptly,
“What day of the month is it?”
“The seventh of August, I believe.”
“More than half my vacation gone, and I've only had a week of it! I call
that hard,” and he groaned dismally.
“So it is; but there is more to come, and you may be able to enjoy
that.”
“May be able! I will be able! Does that old noodle think I'm going to
stay stived up here much longer?”
“I guess he does, unless your eyes get on faster than they have yet.”
“Has he said anything more lately?”
“I haven't seen him, you know. Shall I begin? this looks rather nice.”
“Read away; it's all one to me.” And Mac cast himself down upon the old
lounge, where his heavy head felt easiest.
Rose began with great spirit, and kept on gallantly for a couple
of chapters, getting over the unpronounceable names with unexpected
success, she thought, for her listener did not correct her once, and lay
so still she fancied he was deeply interested. All of a sudden she was
arrested in the middle of a fine paragraph by Mac, who sat bolt upright,
brought both feet down with a thump, and said, in a rough, excited tone,
“Stop! I don't hear a word, and you may as well save your breath to
answer my question.”
“What is it?” asked Rose, looking uneasy, for she had something on her
mind, and feared that he suspected what it was. His next words proved
that she was right.
“Now, look here, I want to know something, and you've got to tell me.”
“Please, don't--” began Rose, beseechingly.
“You must, or I'll pull off this shade and stare at the sun as hard as
ever I can stare. Come now!” and he half rose, as if ready to execute
the threat.
“I will! oh, I will tell, if I know! But don't be reckless and do
anything so crazy as that,” cried Rose, in great distress.
“Very well; then listen, and don't dodge, as everyone else does. Didn't
the doctor think my eyes worse the last time he came? Mother won't say,
but you shall.”
“I believe he did,” faltered Rose.
“I thought so! Did he say I should be able to go to school when it
begins?”
“No, Mac,” very low.
“Ah!”
That was all, but Rose saw her cousin set his lips together and take
a long breath, as if she had hit him hard. He bore the disappointment
bravely, however, and asked quite steadily in a minute,
“How soon does he think I can study again?”
It was so hard to answer that! Yet Rose knew she must, for Aunt Jane had
declared she could not do it, and Uncle Mac had begged her to break the
truth to the poor lad.
“Not for a good many months.”
“How many?” he asked with a pathetic sort of gruffness.
“A year, perhaps.”
“A whole year! Why, I expected to be ready for college by that time.”
And, pushing up the shade, Mac stared at her with startled eyes, that
soon blinked and fell before the one ray of light.
“Plenty of time for that; you must be patient now, and get them
thoroughly well, or they will trouble you again when it will be harder
to spare them,” she said, with tears in her own eyes.
“I won't do it! I will study and get through somehow. It's all humbug
about taking care so long. These doctors like to keep hold of a fellow
if they can. But I won't stand it I vow I won't!” and he banged his fist
down on the unoffending pillow as if he were pommelling the hard-hearted
doctor.
“Now, Mac, listen to me,” Rose said very earnestly, though her voice
shook a little and her heart ached. “You know you have hurt your eyes
reading by fire-light and in the dusk, and sitting up late, and now
you'll have to pay for it; the doctor said so. You must be careful, and
do as he tells you, or you will be blind.”
“No!”
“Yes, it is true, and he wanted us to tell you that nothing but entire
rest would cure you. I know it's dreadfully hard, but we'll all help
you; I'll read all day long, and lead you, and wait upon you, and try to
make it easier.”
She stopped there, for it was evident that he did not hear a sound; the
word “blind” seemed to have knocked him down, for he had buried his
face in the pillow, and lay so still that Rose was frightened. She sat
motionless for many minutes, longing to comfort him, but not knowing
how, and wishing Uncle Alec would come, for he had promised to tell Mac.
Presently, a sort of choking sound came out of the pillow, and went
straight to her heart the most pathetic sob she ever heard, for, though
it was the most natural means of relief, the poor fellow must not
indulge in it because of the afflicted eyes. The “French Revolution”
tumbled out of her lap, and, running to the sofa, she knelt down by
it, saying, with the motherly sort of tenderness girls feel for any
sorrowing creature,
“Oh, my dear, you mustn't cry! It is so bad for your poor eyes. Take
your head out of that hot pillow, and let me cool it. I don't wonder you
feel so, but please don't cry. I'll cry for you; it won't hurt me.”
As she spoke she pulled away the cushion with gentle force, and saw the
green shade all crushed and stained with the few hot tears that told how
bitter the disappointment had been. Mac felt her sympathy, but, being
a boy, did not thank her for it; only sat up with a jerk, saying, as
he tried to rub away the tell-tale drops with the sleeve of his jacket,
“Don't bother; weak eyes always water. I'm all right.”
But Rose cried out, and caught his arm, “Don't touch them with that
rough woollen stuff! Lie down and let me bathe them, there's a dear boy;
then there will be no harm done.”
“They do smart confoundedly. I say, don't you tell the other fellows
that I made a baby of myself, will you?” he added, yielding with a sigh
to the orders of his nurse, who had flown for the eye-wash and linen
cambric handkerchief.
“Of course I won't; but anyone would be upset at the idea of being well
troubled in this way. I'm sure you bear it splendidly, and you know it
isn't half so bad when you get used to it. Besides, it is only for a
time, and you can do lots of pleasant things if you can't study. You'll
have to wear blue goggles, perhaps; won't that be funny?”
And while she was pouring out all the comfortable words she could think
of, Rose was softly bathing the eyes and dabbing the hot forehead with
lavender-water, as her patient lay quiet with a look on his face that
grieved her sadly.
“Homer was blind, and so was Milton, and they did something to be
remembered by, in spite of it,” he said, as if to himself, in a solemn
tone, for even the blue goggles did not bring a smile.
“Papa had a picture of Milton and his daughters writing for him. It
was a very sweet picture, I thought,” observed Rose in a serious voice,
trying to meet the sufferer on his own ground.
“Perhaps I could study if someone read and did the eye part. Do you
suppose I could, by and by?” he asked, with a sudden ray of hope.
“I dare say, if your head is strong enough. This sunstroke, you know, is
what upset you, and your brain needs rest, the doctor says.”
“I'll have a talk with the old fellow next time he comes, and find out
just what I may do; then I shall know where I am. What a fool I was that
day to be stewing my brains and letting the sun glare on my book till
the letters danced before me! I see 'em now when I shut my eyes; black
balls bobbing round, and stars and all sorts of queer things. Wonder if
all blind people do?”
“Don't think about them; I'll go on reading, shall I? We shall come
to the exciting part soon, and then you'll forget all this,” suggested
Rose.
“No, I never shall forget. Hang the old 'Revolution'! I don't want to
hear another word of it. My head aches, and I'm hot. Oh, wouldn't I like
to go for a pull in the 'Stormy Petrel!”' and poor Mac tossed about as
if he did not know what to do with himself.
“Let me sing, and perhaps you'll drop off; then the day will seem
shorter,” said Rose, taking up a fan and sitting down beside him.
“Perhaps I shall; I didn't sleep much last night, and when I did I
dreamed like fun. See here, you tell the people that I know, and it's
all right, and I don't want them to talk about it or howl over me.
That's all; now drone away, and I'll try to sleep. Wish I could for a
year, and wake up cured.”
“Oh, I wish, I wish you could!”
Rose said it so fervently that Mac was moved to grope for her apron and
hold on to a corner of it, as if it was comfortable to feel her near
him. But all he said was,
“You are a good little soul, Rosy. Give us 'The Birks'; that is a drowsy
one that always sends me off.”
Quite contented with this small return for all her sympathy, Rose waved
her fan and sang, in a dreamy tone, the pretty Scotch air, the burden of
which is,
“Bonny lassie, will ye gang, will ye gang
To the Birks of Aberfeldie?”
Whether the lassie went or not I cannot say, but the laddie was off to
the land of Nod, in about ten minutes, quite worn out with hearing the
bad tidings and the effort to bear them manfully.