CHAPTER XVII.
_AMONG THE HAY-COCKS._
Uncle Alec did not object; and, finding that no one had any claim uponthe child, permitted Rose to keep it for a time at least. So littleDulce, newly equipped even to a name, took her place among them andslowly began to thrive. But she did not grow pretty, and never was agay, attractive child; for she seemed to have been born in sorrow andbrought up in misery. A pale, pensive little creature, always creepinginto corners and looking timidly out, as if asking leave to live, and,when offered playthings, taking them with a meek surprise that wasvery touching.
Rose soon won her heart, and then almost wished she had not; for babyclung to her with inconvenient fondness, changing her former wail of"Marmar" into a lament for "Aunty Wose" if separated long.Nevertheless, there was great satisfaction in cherishing the littlewaif; for she learned more than she could teach, and felt a sense ofresponsibility which was excellent ballast for her enthusiasticnature.
Kitty Van, who made Rose her model in all things, was immediatelyinspired to go and do likewise, to the great amusement as well asannoyance of her family. Selecting the prettiest, liveliest child inthe Asylum, she took it home on trial for a week. "A perfect cherub"she pronounced it the first day, but an "_enfant terrible_" before theweek was over; for the young hero rioted by day, howled by night,ravaged the house from top to bottom, and kept his guardians in aseries of panics by his hair-breadth escapes. So early on Saturday,poor, exhausted Kitty restored the "cherub" with many thanks, anddecided to wait till her views of education were rather more advanced.
As the warm weather came on, Rose announced that Dulce needed mountainair; for she dutifully repeated as many of Dr. Alec's prescriptions aspossible, and, remembering how much good Cosy Corner did her long ago,resolved to try it on her baby. Aunt Jessie and Jamie went with her,and Mother Atkinson received them as cordially as ever. The prettydaughters were all married and gone, but a stout damsel took theirplace; and nothing seemed changed except that the old heads weregrayer and the young ones a good deal taller than six years ago.
Jamie immediately fraternized with neighboring boys, and devotedhimself to fishing with an ardor which deserved greater success. AuntJessie revelled in the reading, for which she had no time at home; andlay in her hammock a happy woman, with no socks to darn, buttons tosew, or housekeeping cares to vex her soul.
Rose went about with Dulce like a very devoted hen with one ratherfeeble chicken; for she was anxious to have this treatment work well,and tended her little patient with daily increasing satisfaction. Dr.Alec came up to pass a few days, and pronounced the child in a mostpromising condition. But the grand event of the season was theunexpected arrival of Phebe.
Two of her pupils had invited her to join them in a trip to themountains, and she ran away from the great hotel to surprise herlittle mistress with a sight of her, so well and happy that Rose hadno anxiety left on her account.
Three delightful days they spent, roaming about together, talking asonly girls can talk after a long separation, and enjoying one anotherlike a pair of lovers. As if to make it quite perfect, by one of thoseremarkable coincidences which sometimes occur, Archie happened to runup for the Sunday; so Phebe had _her_ surprise, and Aunt Jessie andthe telegraph kept their secret so well, no one ever knew whatmaternal machinations brought the happy accident to pass.
Then Rose saw a very pretty, pastoral bit of love-making, and longafter it was over, and Phebe gone one way, Archie another, the echo ofsweet words seemed to linger in the air, tender ghosts to haunt thepine-grove, and even the big coffee-pot had a halo of romance aboutit; for its burnished sides reflected the soft glances the loversinterchanged, as one filled the other's cup at that last breakfast.
Rose found these reminiscences more interesting than any novel she hadread, and often beguiled her long leisure by planning a splendidfuture for her Phebe, as she trotted about after her baby in thelovely July weather.
On one of the most perfect days, she sat under an old apple-tree onthe slope behind the house where they used to play. Before her openedthe wide intervale, dotted with hay-makers at their picturesque work.On the left, flowed the swift river fringed with graceful elms intheir bravest greenery; on the right, rose the purple hills serene andgrand; and overhead glowed the midsummer sky which glorified it all.
Little Dulce tired of play, lay fast asleep in the nest she had madein one of the hay-cocks close by; and Rose leaned against the gnarledold tree, dreaming day-dreams with her work at her feet. Happy andabsorbing fancies they seemed to be; for her face was beautifullytranquil, and she took no heed of the train which suddenly wentspeeding down the valley, leaving a white cloud behind. Its rumbleconcealed the sound of approaching steps, and her eyes never turnedfrom the distant hills, till the abrupt appearance of a very sunburntbut smiling young man made her jump up, exclaiming joyfully,--
"Why Mac! where did you drop from?"
"The top of Mount Washington. How do you do?"
"Never better. Won't you go in? You must be tired after such a fall."
"No, thank you; I've seen the old lady. She told me Aunt Jessie andthe boy had gone to town, and that you were 'settin' round' in the oldplace; so I came on at once, and will take a lounge here, if you don'tmind," answered Mac, unstrapping his knapsack, and taking a hay-cockas if it were a chair.
Rose subsided into her former seat, surveying her cousin with muchsatisfaction, as she said,--
"This is the third surprise I've had since I came. Uncle popped inupon us first, then Phebe, and now you. Have you had a pleasant tramp?Uncle said you were off."
"Delightful! I feel as if I'd been in heaven, or near it, for aboutthree weeks; and thought I'd break the shock of coming down to theearth by calling here on my way home."
"You look as if heaven suited you. Brown as a berry; but so fresh andhappy, I should never guess you had been scrambling down a mountain,"said Rose, trying to discover why he looked so well in spite of theblue-flannel suit and dusty shoes; for there was a certain sylvanfreshness about him, as he sat there full of the reposeful strengththe hills seemed to have given, the wholesome cheerfulness days of airand sunshine put into a man, and the clear, bright look of one who hadcaught glimpses of a new world from the mountain-top.
"Tramping agrees with me. I took a dip in the river as I came along,and made my toilet in a place where Milton's Sabrina might havelived," he said, shaking back his damp hair, and settling the knot ofscarlet bunch-berries stuck in his button-hole.
"You look as if you found the nymph at home," said Rose, knowing howmuch he liked the Comus.
"I found her _here_," and he made a little bow.
"That's very pretty; and I'll give you one in return. You grow morelike Uncle Alec every day, and I think I'll call you Alec, Jr."
"Alexander the Great wouldn't thank you for that," and Mac did notlook as grateful as she had expected.
"Very like, indeed, except the forehead. His is broad and benevolent;yours high and arched. Do you know if you had no beard, and wore yourhair long, I really think you'd look like Milton," added Rose, surethat would please him.
It certainly did amuse him; for he lay back on the hay and laughed soheartily that his merriment scared the squirrel on the wall and wokeDulce.
"You ungrateful boy! will nothing suit you? When I say you look likethe best man I know, you give a shrug; and, when I liken you to agreat poet, you shout: I'm afraid you are very conceited, Mac;" andRose laughed too, glad to see him so gay.
"If I am, it is your fault. Nothing I can do will ever make a Miltonof me, unless I go blind some day," he said, sobering at the thought.
"You once said a man could be what he liked if he tried hard enough;so why shouldn't you be a poet?" asked Rose, liking to trip him upwith his own words, as he often did her.
"I thought I was to be an M.D."
"You might be both. There have been poetical doctors, you know."
"Would you like me to be such an one?" asked Mac, looking at her asseriousl
y as if he really thought of trying it.
"No: I'd rather have you one or the other. I don't care which, onlyyou must be famous in either you choose. I'm very ambitious for you;because, I insist upon it, you are a genius of some sort. I think itis beginning to simmer already, and I've a great curiosity to knowwhat it will turn out to be."
Mac's eyes shone as she said that, but before he could speak a littlevoice said, "Aunty Wose!" and he turned to find Dulce sitting up inher nest, staring at the broad blue back before her with round eyes.
"Do you know your Don?" he asked, offering his hand with respectfulgentleness; for she seemed a little doubtful whether he was friend orstranger.
"It is 'Mat,'" said Rose, and that familiar word seemed to reassurethe child at once; for, leaning forward, she kissed him as if quiteused to doing it.
"I picked up some toys for her by the way, and she shall have them atonce to pay for that. I didn't expect to be so graciously received bythis shy mouse," said Mac, much gratified; for Dulce was very chary ofher favors.
"She knew you; for I always carry my home-album with me and when shecomes to your picture she always kisses it, because I never want herto forget her first friend," explained Rose, pleased with her pupil.
"First, but not best," answered Mac, rummaging in his knapsack for thepromised toys, which he set forth upon the hay before delighted Dulce.
Neither picture-books nor sweeties; but berries strung on long stemsof grass, acorns and pretty cones, bits of rock shining with mica,several bluebirds' feathers, and a nest of moss with white pebbles foreggs.
"Dearest Nature, strong and kind," knows what children love, and hasplenty of such playthings ready for them all, if one only knows how tofind them. These were received with rapture; and, leaving the littlecreature to enjoy them in her own quiet way, Mac began to tumble thethings back into his knapsack again. Two or three books lay near Rose,and she took up one which opened at a place marked by a scribbledpaper.
"Keats? I didn't know you condescended to read any thing so modern,"she said, moving the paper to see the page beneath.
Mac looked up, snatched the book out of her hand, and shook downseveral more scraps; then returned it with a curiously shame-facedexpression, saying, as he crammed the papers into his pocket,--
"I beg pardon, but it was full of rubbish. Oh, yes! I'm fond of Keats;don't you know him?"
"I used to read him a good deal; but uncle found me crying over the'Pot of Basil,' and advised me to read less poetry for a while or Ishould get too sentimental," answered Rose, turning the pages withoutseeing them; for a new idea had just popped into her head.
"'The Eve of St. Agnes' is the most perfect love-story in the world, Ithink," said Mac, enthusiastically.
"Read it to me. I feel just like hearing poetry, and you will do itjustice if you are fond of it," said Rose, handing him the book withan innocent air.
"Nothing I'd like better; but it is rather long."
"I'll tell you to stop if I get tired. Baby won't interrupt; she willbe contented for an hour with those pretty things."
As if well pleased with his task, Mac laid himself comfortably on thegrass, and leaning his head on his hand read the lovely story as onlyone could who entered fully into the spirit of it. Rose watched himclosely, and saw how his face brightened over some quaint fancy,delicate description, or delicious word; heard how smoothly themelodious measures fell from his lips, and read something more thanadmiration in his eyes, as he looked up now and then to mark if sheenjoyed it as much as he.
She could not help enjoying it; for the poet's pen painted as well aswrote, and the little romance lived before her: but she was notthinking of John Keats as she listened; she was wondering if thiscousin was a kindred spirit, born to make such music and leave assweet an echo behind him. It seemed as if it might be; and, aftergoing through the rough caterpillar and the pent-up chrysalis changes,the beautiful butterfly would appear to astonish and delight them all.So full of this fancy was she that she never thanked him when thestory ended; but, leaning forward, asked in a tone that made him startand look as if he had fallen from the clouds,--
"Mac, do you ever write poetry?"
"Never."
"What do you call the song Phebe sang with her bird chorus?"
"That was nothing till she put the music to it. But she promised notto tell."
"She didn't; I suspected, and now I know," laughed Rose, delighted tohave caught him.
Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling, and leaning on bothelbows tried to hide his face; for it had reddened like that of amodest girl when teased about her lover.
"You needn't look so guilty; it is no sin to write poetry," said Rose,amused at his confusion.
"It's a sin to call that rubbish poetry," muttered Mac, with greatscorn.
"It is a greater sin to tell a fib, and say you never write it."
"Reading so much sets one thinking about such things, and every fellowscribbles a little jingle when he is lazy or in love, you know,"explained Mac, looking very guilty.
Rose could not quite understand the change she saw in him, till hislast words suggested a cause which she knew by experience was apt toinspire young men. Leaning forward again, she asked solemnly, thoughher eyes danced with fun,--
"Mac, are you in love?"