Chapter 17 AMONG THE HAYCOCKS
Uncle Alec did not object and, finding that no one had any claim upon the child, permitted Rose to keep it for a time at least. So little Dulce, newly equipped even to a name, took her place among them and slowly began to thrive. But she did not grow pretty and never was a gay, attractive child, for she seemed to have been born in sorrow and brought up in misery. A pale, pensive little creature, always creeping into corners and looking timidly out, as if asking leave to live, and, when offered playthings, taking them with a meek surprise that was very touching.
Rose soon won her heart, and then almost wished she had not, for baby clung 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 little waif, for she learned more than she could teach and felt a sense of responsibility which was excellent ballast for her enthusiastic nature.
Kitty Van, who made Rose her model in all things, was immediately inspired to go and do likewise, to the great amusement as well as annoyance of her family. Selecting the prettiest, liveliest child in the Asylum, she took it home on trial for a week. “A perfect cherub” she pronounced it the first day, but an “enfant terrible” before the week was over, for the young hero rioted by day, howled by night, ravaged the house from top to bottom, and kept his guardians in a series of panics by his hairbreadth escapes. So early on Saturday, poor exhausted Kitty restored the “cherub” with many thanks, and decided to wait until her views of education were rather more advanced.
As the warm weather came on, Rose announced that Dulce needed mountain air, for she dutifully repeated as many of Dr. Alec's prescriptions as possible and, remembering how much good Cozy 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 pretty daughters were all married and gone, but a stout damsel took their place, and nothing seemed changed except that the old heads were grayer and the young ones a good deal taller than six years ago.
Jamie immediately fraternized with neighboring boys and devoted himself to fishing with an ardor which deserved greater success. Aunt Jessie reveled in reading, for which she had no time at home, and lay in her hammock a happy woman, with no socks to darn, buttons to sew, or housekeeping cares to vex her soul. Rose went about with Dulce like a very devoted hen with one rather feeble 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 most promising condition. But the grand event of the season was the unexpected arrival of Phebe.
Two of her pupils had invited her to join them in a trip to the mountains, and she ran away from the great hotel to surprise her little mistress with a sight of her, so well and happy that Rose had no anxiety left on her account.
Three delightful days they spent, roaming about together, talking as only girls can talk after a long separation, and enjoying one another like a pair of lovers. As if to make it quite perfect, by one of those remarkable coincidences which sometimes occur, Archie happened to run up for the Sunday, so Phebe had her surprise, and Aunt Jessie and the telegraph kept their secret so well, no one ever knew what maternal machinations brought the happy accident to pass.
Then Rose saw a very pretty, pastoral bit of lovemaking, and long after it was over, and Phebe gone one way, Archie another, the echo of sweet words seemed to linger in the air, tender ghosts to haunt the pine grove, and even the big coffeepot had a halo of romance about it, for its burnished sides reflected the soft glances the lovers interchanged as one filled the other's cup at that last breakfast.
Rose found these reminiscences more interesting than any novel she had read, and often beguiled her long leisure by planning a splendid future for her Phebe as she trotted about after her baby in the lovely July weather.
On one of the most perfect days she sat under an old apple tree on the slope behind the house where they used to play. Before her opened the wide intervale, dotted with haymakers at their picturesque work. On the left flowed the swift river fringed with graceful elms in their bravest greenery; on the right rose the purple hills serene and grand; and overhead glowed the midsummer sky, which glorified it all.
Little Dulce, tired of play, lay fast asleep in the nest she had made in one of the haycocks close by, and Rose leaned against the gnarled old tree, dreaming daydreams with her work at her feet. Happy and absorbing fancies they seemed to be, for her face was beautifully tranquil, and she took no heed of the train which suddenly went speeding down the valley, leaving a white cloud behind. Its rumble concealed the sound of approaching steps, and her eyes never turned from the distant hills till the abrupt appearance of a very sunburned but 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 and the boy had gone to town and that you were 'settin' round' in the old place. I came on at once and will take a lounge here if you don't mind,” answered Mac, unstrapping his knapsack and taking a haycock as if it were a chair.
Rose subsided into her former seat, surveying her cousin with much satisfaction as she said: “This is the third surprise I've had since I came. Uncle popped in upon 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 about three weeks, and thought I'd break the shock of coming down to the earth by calling here on my way home.”
“You look as if heaven suited you. Brown as a berry, but so fresh and happy I should never guess you had been scrambling down a mountain,” said Rose, trying to discover why he looked so well in spite of the blue flannel suit and dusty shoes, for there was a certain sylvan freshness about him as he sat there full of reposeful strength the hills seemed to have given, the wholesome cheerful days of air and sunshine put into a man, and the clear, bright look of one who had caught glimpses of a new world from the mountaintop.
“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 have lived,” he said, shaking back his damp hair and settling the knot of scarlet bunchberries stuck in his buttonhole.
“You look as if you found the nymph at home,” said Rose, knowing how much 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 more like 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 not look 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 your hair long, I really think you'd look like Milton,” added Rose, sure that would please him.
It certainly did amuse him, for he lay back on the hay and laughed so heartily that his merriment scared the squirrel on the wall and woke Dulce.
“You ungrateful boy! Will nothing suit you? When I say you look like the best man I know, you gave a shrug, and when I liken you to a great poet, you shout. I'm afraid you are very conceited, Mac.” And Rose laughed, too, glad to see him so gay.
“If I am, it is your fault. Nothing I can do will ever make a Milton of me, unless I go blind someday,” 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 up with 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 a one?” asked Mac, looking at her as seriously as if he really thought of trying it.
“No. I'd rather have you one or the other. I don't care which, only you 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 it is beginning to simmer already, and I've got a great curiosity to know what it will turn out to be.”
Mac's eyes shone as she said that, but before he could speak a little voice said, “Aunty Wose!” and he turned to find Dulce sitting up in her nest staring at the broad blue back before her with round eyes.
“Do you know your Don?” he asked, offering his hand with respectful gentleness, for she seemed a little doubtful whether he was a friend or stranger.
“It is 'Mat,'” said Rose, and that familiar word seemed to reassure the child at once, for, leaning forward, she kissed him as if quite used to doing it.
“I picked up some toys for her, by the way, and she shall have them at once to pay for that. I didn't expect to be so graciously received by this shy mouse,” said Mac, much gratified, for Dulce was very chary of her favors.
“She knew you, for I always carry my home album with me, and when she comes to your picture she always kisses it, because I never want her to forget her first friend,” explained Rose, pleased with her pupil.
“First, but not best,” answered Mac, rummaging in his knapsack for the promised toys, which he set forth upon the hay before delighted Dulce.
Neither picture books nor sweeties, but berries strung on long stems of grass, acorns, and pretty cones, bits of rock shining with mica, several bluebirds' feathers, and a nest of moss with white pebbles for eggs.
“Dearest Nature, strong and kind” knows what children love, and has plenty of such playthings ready for them all, if one only knows how to find them. These were received with rapture. And leaving the little creature to enjoy them in her own quiet way, Mac began to tumble the things 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 scribbled paper.
“Keats? I didn't know you condescended to read anything so modern,” she said, moving the paper to see the page beneath.
Mac looked up, snatched the book out of her hand, and shook down several more scraps, then returned it with a curiously shamefaced expression, 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 I should get too sentimental,” answered Rose, turning the pages without seeing 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, I think,” said Mac, enthusiastically.
“Read it to me. I feel just like hearing poetry, and you will do it justice if you are fond of it,” said Rose, handing him the book with an 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 will be contented for an hour with those pretty things.”
As if well pleased with his task, Mac laid himself comfortably on the grass and, leaning his head on his hand, read the lovely story as only one could who entered fully into the spirit of it. Rose watched him closely and saw how his face brightened over some quaint fancy, delicate description, or delicious word; heard how smoothly the melodious measures fell from his lips, and read something more than admiration in his eyes as he looked up now and then to mark if she enjoyed it as much as he.
She could not help enjoying it, for the poet's pen painted as well as wrote, and the little romance lived before her, but she was not thinking of John Keats as she listened; she was wondering if this cousin was a kindred spirit, born to make such music and leave as sweet an echo behind him. It seemed as if it might be; and, after going 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 the story ended but, leaning forward, asked in a tone that made him start and 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 not to tell.”
“She didn't. I suspected, and now I know,” laughed Rose, delighted to have caught him.
Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling and, leaning on both elbows, tried to hide his face for it had reddened like that of a modest girl when teased about her lover.
“You needn't look so guilty; it is no sin to write poetry,” said Rose, amused at his confession.
“It's a sin to call that rubbish poetry,” muttered Mac with great scorn.
“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 fellow scribbles 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 his last words suggested a cause which she knew by experience was apt to inspire young men. Leaning forward again, she asked solemnly, though her eyes danced with fun, “Mac, are you in love?”
“Do I look like it?” And he sat up with such an injured and indignant face that she apologized at once, for he certainly did not look loverlike with hayseed in his hair, several lively crickets playing leapfrog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretching from tree to haycock.
“No, you don't, and I humbly beg your pardon for making such an unwarrantable insinuation. It merely occurred to me that the general upliftedness I observe in you might be owing to that, since it wasn't poetry.”
“It is the good company I've been keeping, if anything. A fellow can't spend 'A Week' with Thoreau and not be the better for it. I'm glad I show it, because in the scramble life is to most of us, even an hour with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his must help one,” said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket with the air of introducing a dear and honored friend.
“I've read bits, and like them they are so original and fresh and sometimes droll,” said Rose, smiling to see what natural and appropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon the pages Mac was turning eagerly, for one had evidently been rained on, a crushed berry stained another, some appreciative field-mouse or squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover was faded with the sunshine, which seemed to have filtered through to the thoughts within.
“Here's a characteristic bit for you: 'I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an oxcart, with free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train, and breathe malaria all the way.'
“I've tried both and quite agree with him,” laughed Mac, and skimming down another page, gave her a paragraph here and there.
“'Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all.'
“'We do not learn much from learned books, but from sincere human books: frank, honest biographies.'
“'At least let us have healthy books. Let the poet be as vigorous as the sugar maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure, besides what runs into the trough; and not like a vine which, being cut in the spring, bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor to heal its wounds.'”
“That will do for you,” said Rose, still thinking of the new suspicion which pleased her by its very improbability.
Mac flashed a quick look at her and shut the book, saying quietly, although his eyes shone, and a conscious smile lurked about his mouth: “We shall see, and no one need meddle, for, as my Thoreau says,
“Whate'er we leave to God, God does
And blesses us: The work we choose should be our own
God lets alone.”
Rose sat silent, as if conscious that she deserved his poetical reproof.
“Come, you have catechized me pretty well; now I'll take my turn and ask you why you look 'uplifted,' as you call it. What have you been doing to make yourself more like your namesake than ever?” asked Mac, carrying war into the enemy's camp with the sudden question.
“Nothing but live, and enjoy doing it. I actually sit here, day after day, as happy and contented with little things as Dulce is and feel as if I wasn't much older than she,” answered the girl, feeling as if some change was going on in that pleasant sort of pause but unable to describe it.
“As if a rose should shut and be a bud again,” murmured Mac, borrowing from his beloved Keats.
“Ah, but I can't do that! I must go on blooming whether I like it or not, and the only trouble I have is to know what leaf I ought to unfold next,” said Rose, playfully smoothing out the white gown, in which she looked very like a daisy among the green.
“How far have you got?” asked Mac, continuing his catechism as if the fancy suited him.
“Let me see. Since I came home last year, I've been gay, then sad, then busy, and now I am simply happy. I don't know why, but seem to be waiting for what is to come next and getting ready for it, perhaps unconsciously,” she said, looking dreamily away to the hills again, is if the new experience was coming to her from afar.
Mac watched her thoughtfully for a minute, wondering how many more leaves must unfold before the golden heart of this human flower would lie open to the sun. He felt a curious desire to help in some way, and could think of none better than to offer her what he had found most helpful to himself. Picking up another book, he opened it at a place where an oak leaf lay and, handing it to her, said, as if presenting something very excellent and precious: “If you want to be ready to take whatever comes in a brave and noble way, read that, and the one where the page is turned down.”
Rose took it, saw the words “Self-Reliance,” and turning the leaves, read here and there a passage which was marked: “'My life is for itself, and not for a spectacle.'
“'Insist on yourself: never imitate. That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him.'
“'Do that which is assigned to you, and you cannot hope or dare too much.'”
Then, coming to the folded page, whose title was “Heroism,” she read, and brightened as she read:
“'Let the maiden, with erect soul, walk serenely on her way; accept the hint of each new experience; search in turn all the objects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm of her newborn being.'
“'The fair girl who repels interference by a decided and proud choice of influences inspires every beholder with something of her own nobleness; and the silent heart encourages her. O friend, never strike sail to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God the seas.'”
“You understand that, don't you?” asked Mac as she glanced up with the look of one who had found something suited to her taste and need.
“Yes, but I never dared to read these Essays, because I thought they were too wise for me.”
“The wisest things are sometimes the simplest, I think. Everyone welcomes light and air, and cannot do without them, yet very few could explain them truly. I don't ask you to read or understand all of that don't myself but I do recommend the two essays I've marked, as well as 'Love' and 'Friendship.' Try them, and let me know how they suit. I'll leave you the book.”
“Thanks. I wanted something fine to read up here and, judging by what I see, I fancy this will suit. Only Aunt Jessie may think I'm putting on airs if I try Emerson.”
“Why should she? He has done more to set young men and women thinking than any man in this century at least. Don't you be afraid if it is what you want, take it, and go ahead as he tells you
“Without halting, without rest,
Lifting Better up to Best.”
“I'll try,” said Rose meekly, feeling that Mac had been going ahead himself much faster than she had any suspicion.
Here a voice exclaimed “Hallo!” and, looking around, Jamie was discovered surveying them critically as he stood in an independent attitude, like a small Colossus of Rhodes in brown linen, with a bundle of molasses candy in one hand, several new fishhooks cherished carefully in the other, and his hat well on the back of his head, displaying as many freckles as one somewhat limited nose could reasonably accommodate.
“How are you, young one?” said Mac, nodding.
“Tip-top. Glad it's you. Thought Archie might have turned up again, and he's no fun. Where did you come from? What did you come for? How long are you going to stay? Want a bit? It's jolly good.”
With which varied remarks Jamie approached, shook hands in a manly way, and, sitting down beside his long cousin, hospitably offered sticks of candy all around.
“Did you get any letters?” asked Rose, declining the sticky treat.
“Lots, but Mama forgot to give 'em to me, and I was rather in a hurry, for Mrs. Atkinson said somebody had come and I couldn't wait,” explained Jamie, reposing luxuriously with his head on Mac's legs and his mouth full.
“I'll step and get them. Aunty must be tired, and we should enjoy reading the news together.”
“She is the most convenient girl that ever was,” observed Jamie as Rose departed, thinking Mac might like some more substantial refreshment than sweetmeats.
“I should think so, if you let her run your errands, you lazy little scamp,” answered Mac, looking after her as she went up the green slope, for there was something very attractive to him about the slender figure in a plain white gown with a black sash about the waist and all the wavy hair gathered to the top of the head with a little black bow.
“Sort of pre-Raphaelite, and quite refreshing after the furbelowed creatures at the hotels,” he said to himself as she vanished under the arch of scarlet runners over the garden gate.
“Oh, well! She likes it. Rose is fond of me, and I'm very good to her when I have time,” continued Jamie, calmly explaining. “I let her cut out a fishhook, when it caught in my leg, with a sharp penknife, and you'd better believe it hurt, but I never squirmed a bit, and she said I was a brave boy. And then, one day I got left on my desert island out in the pond, you know the boat floated off, and there I was for as much as an hour before I could make anyone hear. But Rose thought I might be there, and down she came, and told me to swim ashore. It wasn't far, but the water was horrid cold, and I didn't like it. I started though, just as she said, and got on all right, till about halfway, then cramp or something made me shut up and howl, and she came after me slapdash, and pulled me ashore. Yes, sir, as wet as a turtle, and looked so funny, I laughed, and that cured the cramp. Wasn't I good to mind when she said, 'Come on'?”
“She was, to dive after such a scapegrace. I guess you lead her a life of it, and I'd better take you home with me in the morning,” suggested Mac, rolling the boy over and giving him a good-natured pummeling on the haycock while Dulce applauded from her nest.
When Rose returned with ice-cold milk, gingerbread, and letters, she found the reader of Emerson up in the tree, pelting and being pelted with green apples as Jamie vainly endeavored to get at him. The siege ended when Aunt Jessie appeared, and the rest of the afternoon was spent in chat about home affairs.
Early the next morning Mac was off, and Rose went as far as the old church with him.
“Shall you walk all the way?” she asked as he strode along beside her in the dewy freshness of the young day.
“Only about twenty miles, then take car and whisk back to my work,” he answered, breaking a delicate fern for her.
“Are you never lonely?”
“Never. I take my best friends along, you know,” and he gave a slap to the pocket from which peeped the volume of Thoreau.
“I'm afraid you leave your very best behind you,” said Rose, alluding to the book he had lent her yesterday.
“I'm glad to share it with you. I have much of it here, and a little goes a great way, as you will soon discover,” he answered, tapping his head.
“I hope the reading will do as much for me as it seems to have done for you. I'm happy, but you are wise and good I want to be also.”
“Read away, and digest it well, then write and tell me what you think of it. Will you?” he asked as they paused where the four roads met.
“If you will answer. Shall you have time with all your other work? Poetry I beg pardon medicine is very absorbing, you know,” answered Rose mischievously, for just then, as he stood bareheaded in the shadows of the leaves playing over his fine forehead, she remembered the chat among the haycocks, and he did not look at all like an M.D.
“I'll make time.”
“Good-bye, Milton.”
“Good-bye, Sabrina.”