Rose much enjoyed this correspondence, and found herself regretting that it was at an end when she went home in September, for Mac wrote better than he talked, though he could do that remarkably well when he chose. But she had no chance to express either pleasure or regret, for the first time she saw him after her return the great change in his appearance made her forget everything else. Some whim had seized him to be shaven and shorn, and when he presented himself to welcome Rose, she hardly knew him. The shaggy hair was nicely trimmed and brushed, the cherished brown beard entirely gone, showing a well-cut mouth and handsome chin and giving a new expression to the whole face.
“Are you trying to look like Keats?” she asked, after a critical glance, which left her undecided whether the change was an improvement or not.
“I am trying not to look like Uncle,” answered Mac coolly.
“And why, if you please?” demanded Rose in great surprise.
“Because I prefer to look like myself, and not resemble any other man, no matter how good or great he may be.”
“You haven't succeeded then, for you look now very much like the young Augustus,” returned Rose, rather pleased on the whole to see what a finely shaped head appeared after the rough thatch was off.
“Trust a woman to find a comparison for everything under the sun!” laughed Mac, not at all flattered by the one just made. “What do you think of me, on the whole?” he asked a minute later, as he found Rose still scrutinizing him with a meditative air.
“Haven't made up my mind. It is such an entire change, I don't know you, and feel as if I ought to be introduced. You certainly look much more tidy, and I fancy I shall like it when I'm used to seeing a somewhat distinguished-looking man about the house instead of my old friend Orson,” answered Rose, with her head on one side to get a profile view.
“Don't tell Uncle why I did it, please he thinks it was for the sake of coolness and likes it, so take no notice. They are all used to me now, and don't mind,” said Mac, roving about the room as if rather ashamed of his whim after all.
“No, I won't, but you mustn't mind if I'm not as sociable as usual for a while. I never can be with strangers, and you really do seem like one. That will be a punishment for your want of taste and love of originality,” returned Rose, resolved to punish him for the slight put upon her beloved uncle.
“As you like. I won't trouble you much anyway, for I'm going to be very busy. May go to L this winter, if Uncle thinks best, and then my 'originality' can't annoy you.”
“I hope you won't go. Why, Mac, I'm just getting to know and enjoy you, and thought we'd have a nice time this winter reading something together. Must you go?” And Rose seemed to forget his strangeness, as she held him still by one button while she talked.
“That would be nice. But I feel as if I must go my plans are all made, and I've set my heart on it,” answered Mac, looking so eager that Rose released him, saying sadly: “I suppose it is natural for you all to get restless and push off, but it is hard for me to let you go one after the other and stay here alone. Charlie is gone, Archie and Steve are wrapped up in their sweethearts, the boys away, and only Jamie left to 'play with Rose.'?
“But I'll come back, and you'll be glad I went if I bring you my—” began Mac with sudden animation, then stopped abruptly to bite his lips, as if he had nearly said too much.
“Your what?” asked Rose curiously, for he neither looked nor acted like himself.
“I forgot how long it takes to get a diploma,” he said, walking away again.
“There will be one comfort if you go you'll see Phebe and can tell me all about her, for she is so modest, she doesn't half do it. I shall want to know how she gets on, if she is engaged to sing ballads in the concerts they talk of for next winter. You will write, won't you?”
“Oh, yes! No doubt of that,” and Mac laughed low to himself as he stooped to look at the little Psyche on the mantelpiece. “What a pretty thing it is!” he added soberly as he took it up.
“Be careful. Uncle gave it to me last New Year, and I'm very fond of it. She is just lifting her lamp to see what Cupid is like, for she hasn't seen him yet,” said Rose, busy putting her worktable in order.
“You ought to have a Cupid for her to look at. She has been waiting patiently a whole year, with nothing but a bronze lizard in sight,” said Mac with the half-shy, half-daring look which was so new and puzzling.
“Cupid fled away as soon as she woke him, you know, and she had a bad time of it. She must wait longer till she can find and keep him.”
“Do you know she looks like you? Hair tied up in a knot, and a spiritual sort of face. Don't you see it?” asked Mac, turning the graceful little figure toward her.
“Not a bit of it. I wonder whom I shall resemble next! I've been compared to a Fra Angelico angel, Saint Agnes, and now 'Syke,' as Annabel once called her.”
“You'd see what I mean, if you'd ever watched your own face when you were listening to music, talking earnestly, or much moved, then your soul gets into your eyes and you are like Psyche.”
“Tell me the next time you see me in a 'soulful' state, and I'll look in the glass, for I'd like to see if it is becoming,” said Rose merrily as she sorted her gay worsteds.
“Your feet in the full-grown grasses,
Moved soft as a soft wind blows;
You passed me as April passes,
With a face made out of a rose,”
murmured Mac under his breath, thinking of the white figure going up a green slope one summer day; then, as if chiding himself for sentimentality, he set Psyche down with great care and began to talk about a course of solid reading for the winter.
After that, Rose saw very little of him for several weeks, as he seemed to be making up for lost time and was more odd and absent than ever when he did appear.
As she became accustomed to the change in his external appearance, she discovered that he was altering fast in other ways and watched the “distinguished-looking gentleman” with much interest, saying to herself, when she saw a new sort of dignity about him alternating with an unusual restlessness of manner, and now and then a touch of sentiment, “Genius is simmering, just as I predicted.”
As the family were in mourning, there were no festivities on Rose's twenty-first birthday, though the boys had planned all sorts of rejoicings. Everyone felt particularly tender toward their girl on that day, remembering how “poor Charlie” had loved her, and they tried to show it in the gifts and good wishes they sent her. She found her sanctum all aglow with autumn leaves, and on her table so many rare and pretty things, she quite forgot she was an heiress and only felt how rich she was in loving friends.
One gift greatly pleased her, though she could not help smiling at the source from whence it came, for Mac sent her a Cupid not the chubby child with a face of naughty merriment, but a slender, winged youth leaning on his unstrung bow, with a broken arrow at his feet. A poem, “To Psyche,” came with it, and Rose was much surprised at the beauty of the lines, for, instead of being witty, complimentary, or gay, there was something nobler than mere sentiment in them, and the sweet old fable lived again in language which fitly painted the maiden Soul looking for a Love worthy to possess it.
Rose read them over and over as she sat among the gold and scarlet leaves which glorified her little room, and each time found new depth and beauty in them, looking from the words that made music in her ear to the lovely shapes that spoke with their mute grace to her eye. The whole thing suited her exactly, it was so delicate and perfect in its way, for she was tired of costly gifts and valued very much this proof of her cousin's taste and talent, seeing nothing in it but an affectionate desire to please her.
All the rest dropped in at intervals through the day to say a loving word, and last of all came Mac. Rose happened to be alone with Dulce, enjoying a splendid sunset from her western window, for October gave her child a beautiful good night.
Rose turned around as he entered and, putting down the little girl, went to him with the evening red shining on her happy face as she said gratefully: “Dear Mac, it was so lovely! I don't know how to thank you for it in any way but this.” And, drawing down his tall head, she gave him the birthday kiss she had given all the others.
But this time it produced a singular effect, for Mac turned scarlet, then grew pale, and when Rose added playfully, thinking to relieve the shyness of so young a poet, “Never again say you don't write poetry, or call your verses rubbish I knew you were a genius, and now I'm sure of it,” he broke out, as if against his will: “No. It isn't genius, it is love!” Then, as she shrank a little, startled at his energy, he added, with an effort at self-control which made his voice sound strange: “I didn't mean to speak, but I can't suffer you to deceive yourself so. I must tell the truth, and not let you kiss me like a cousin when I love you with all my heart and soul!”
“Oh, Mac, don't joke!” cried Rose, bewildered by this sudden glimpse into a heart she thought she knew so well.
“I'm in solemn earnest,” he answered steadily, in such a quiet tone that, but for the pale excitement of his face, she might have doubted his words. “Be angry, if you will. I expect it, for I know it is too soon to speak. I ought to wait for years, perhaps, but you seemed so happy I dared to hope you had forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?” asked Rose sharply.
“Charlie.”
“Ah! You all will insist on believing that I loved him better than I did!” she cried, with both pain and impatience in her voice, for the family delusion tried her very much at times.
“How could we help it, when he was everything women most admire?” said Mac, not bitterly, but as if he sometimes wondered at their want of insight.
“I do not admire weakness of any sort I could never love without either confidence or respect. Do me the justice to believe that, for I'm tired of being pitied.”
She spoke almost passionately, being more excited by Mac's repressed emotion than she had ever been by Charlie's most touching demonstration, though she did not know why.
“But he loved you so!” began Mac, feeling as if a barrier had suddenly gone down but not daring to venture in as yet.
“That was the hard part of it! That was why I tried to love him, why I hoped he would stand fast for my sake, if not for his own, and why I found it so sad sometimes not to be able to help despising him for his want of courage. I don't know how others feel, but, to me, love isn't all. I must look up, not down, trust and honor with my whole heart, and find strength and integrity to lean on. I have had it so far, and I know I could not live without it.”
“Your ideal is a high one. Do you hope to find it, Rose?” Mac asked, feeling, with the humility of a genuine love, that he could not give her all she desired.
“Yes,” she answered, with a face full of the beautiful confidence in virtue, the instinctive desire for the best which so many of us lose too soon, to find again after life's great lessons are well learned. “I do hope to find it, because I try not to be unreasonable and expect perfection. Smile if you will, but I won't give up my hero yet,” and she tried to speak lightly, hoping to lead him away from a more dangerous topic.
“You'll have to look a long while, I'm afraid,” and all the glow was gone out of Mac's face, for he understood her wish and knew his answer had been given.
“I have Uncle to help me, and I think my ideal grew out of my knowledge of him. How can I fail to believe in goodness, when he shows me what it can be and do?”
“It's no use for me to say any more, for I have very little to offer. I did not mean to say a word till I earned a right to hope for something in return. I cannot take it back, but I can wish you success, and I do, because you deserve the very best.” And Mac moved as if he was going away without more words, accepting the inevitable as manfully as he could.
“Thank you that makes me feel very ungrateful and unkind. I wish I could answer you as you want me to for, indeed, dear Mac, I'm very fond of you in my own way,” and Rose looked up with such tender pity and frank affection in her face, it was no wonder the poor fellow caught at a ray of hope and, brightening suddenly, said in his own odd way: “Couldn't you take me on trial while you are waiting for a true hero? It may be years before you find him; meantime, you could be practicing on me in ways that would be useful when you get him.”
“Oh, Mac! What shall I do with you?” exclaimed Rose, so curiously affected by this very characteristic wooing that she did not know whether to laugh or cry, for he was looking at her with his heart in his eyes, though his proposition was the queerest ever made at such a time.
“Just go on being fond of me in your own way, and let me love you as much as I like in mine. I'll try to be satisfied with that.” And he took both her hands so beseechingly that she felt more ungrateful than ever.
“No, it would not be fair, for you would love the most and, if the hero did appear, what would become of you?”
“I should resemble Uncle Alec in one thing at least fidelity, for my first love would be my last.”
That went straight to Rose's heart, and for a minute she stood silent, looking down at the two strong hands that held hers so firmly yet so gently, and the thought went through her mind, “Must he, too, be solitary all his life? I have no dear lover as my mother had, why cannot I make him happy and forget myself?”
It did not seem very hard, and she owned that, even while she told herself that compassion was no equivalent for love. She wanted to give all she could, and keep as much of Mac's affection as she honestly might, because it seemed to grow more sweet and precious when she thought of putting it away.
“You will be like Uncle in happier ways than that, I hope, for you, too, must have a high ideal and find her and be happy,” she said, resolving to be true to the voice of conscience, not be swayed by the impulse of the moment.
“I have found her, but I don't see any prospect of happiness, do you?” he asked wistfully.
“Dear Mac, I cannot give you the love you want, but I do trust and respect you from the bottom of my heart, if that is any comfort,” began Rose, looking up with eyes full of contrition for the pain her reply must give.
She got no further, however, for those last words wrought a marvelous change in Mac. Dropping her hands, he stood erect, as if inspired with sudden energy and hope, while over his face there came a brave, bright look, which for the moment made him a nobler and comelier man than ever handsome Prince had been. “It is a comfort!” he said, in a tone of gratitude that touched her very much. “You said your love must be founded on respect, and that you have given me why can I not earn the rest? I'm nothing now, but everything is possible when one loves with all his heart and soul and strength. Rose, I will be your hero if a mortal man can, even though I have to work and wait for years. I'll make you love me, and be glad to do it. Don't be frightened. I've not lost my wits I've just found them. I don't ask anything I'll never speak of my hope, but it is no use to stop me. I must try it, and I will succeed!”
With the last words, uttered in a ringing voice while his face glowed, his eyes shone, and he looked as if carried out of himself by the passion that possessed him, Mac abruptly left the room, like one eager to change words to deeds and begin his task at once.
Rose was so amazed by all this that she sat down trembling a little, not with fear or anger, but a feeling half pleasure, half pain, and a sense of some new power subtle, strong, and sweet that had come into her life. It seemed as if another Mac had taken the place of the one she had known so long an ardent, ambitious man, ready for any work now that the magical moment had come when everything seems possible to love. If hope could work such a marvelous change for a moment, could not happiness do it for a lifetime? It would be an exciting experiment to try, she thought, remembering the sudden illumination which made that familiar face both beautiful and strange.
She could not help wondering how long this unsuspected sentiment had been growing in his heart and felt perplexed by its peculiar demonstration, for she had never had a lover like this before. It touched and flattered her, nevertheless and she could not but feel honored by a love so genuine and generous, for it seemed to make a man of Mac all at once, and a manly man, too, who was not daunted by disappointment but could “hope against hope” and resolve to make her love him if it took years to do it.
There was the charm of novelty about this sort of wooing, and she tried to guess how he would set about it, felt curious to see how he would behave when next they met, and was half angry with herself for not being able to decide how she ought to act. The more she thought, the more bewildered she grew, for having made up her mind that Mac was a genius, it disturbed all her plans to find him a lover, and such an ardent one. As it was impossible to predict what would come next, she gave up trying to prepare for it and, tired with vain speculations, carried Dulce off to bed, wishing she could tuck away her love troubles as quietly and comfortably as she did her sleepy little charge.
Simple and sincere in all things, Mac gave Rose a new surprise by keeping his promise to the letter asked nothing of her, said nothing of his hope, and went on as if nothing had happened, quite in the old friendly way. No, not quite, for now and then, when she least expected it, she saw again the indescribable expression on his face, a look that seemed to shed a sudden sunshine over her, making her eyes fall involuntarily, her color rise, and her heart beat quicker for a moment. Not a word did he say, but she felt that a new atmosphere surrounded her when he was by, and although he used none of the little devices most lovers employ to keep the flame alight, it was impossible to forget that underneath his quietude there was a hidden world of fire and force ready to appear at a touch, a word from her.
This was rather dangerous knowledge for Rose, and she soon began to feel that there were more subtle temptations than she had expected, for it was impossible to be unconscious of her power, or always to resist the trials of it which daily came unsought. She had never felt this desire before, for Charlie was the only one who had touched her heart, and he was constantly asking as well as giving, and wearied her by demanding too much or oppressed her by offering more than she could accept.
Mac did neither; he only loved her, silently, patiently, hopefully, and this generous sort of fidelity was very eloquent to a nature like hers. She could not refuse or chide, since nothing was asked or urged; there was no need of coldness, for he never presumed; no call for pity, since he never complained. All that could be done was to try and be as just and true as he was, and to wait as trustfully for the end, whatever it was to be.
For a time she liked the new interest it put into her life, yet did nothing to encourage it and thought that if she gave this love no food it would soon starve to death. But it seemed to thrive on air, and presently she began to feel as if a very strong will was slowly but steadily influencing her in many ways. If Mac had never told her that he meant to “make her love him,” she might have yielded unconsciously, but now she mistook the impulse to obey this undercurrent for compassion and resisted stoutly, not comprehending yet the reason for the unrest which took possession of her about this time.
She had as many moods as an April day, and would have much surprised Dr. Alec by her vagaries had he known them all. He saw enough, however, to guess what was the matter, but took no notice, for he knew this fever must run its course, and much medicine only does harm. The others were busy about their own affairs, and Aunt Plenty was too much absorbed in her rheumatism to think of love, for the cold weather set in early, and the poor lady kept her room for days at a time with Rose as nurse.
Mac had spoken of going away in November, and Rose began to hope he would, for she decided that this silent sort of adoration was bad for her, as it prevented her from steadily pursuing the employments she had marked out for that year. What was the use of trying to read useful books when her thoughts continually wandered to those charming essays on “Love” and “Friendship”? To copy antique casts, when all the masculine heads looked like Cupid and the feminine ones like the Psyche on her mantelpiece? To practice the best music if it ended in singing over and over the pretty spring song without Phebe's bird chorus? Dulce's company was pleasantest now, for Dulce seldom talked, so much meditation was possible. Even Aunt Plenty's red flannel, camphor, and Pond's Extract were preferable to general society, and long solitary rides on Rosa seemed the only thing to put her in tune after one of her attempts to find out what she ought to do or leave undone.
She made up her mind at last, and arming herself with an unmade pen, like Fanny Squeers, she boldly went into the study to confer with Dr. Alec at an hour when Mac was usually absent. “I want a pen for marking can you make me one, Uncle?” she asked, popping her head in to be sure he was alone.
“Yes, my dear,” answered a voice so like the doctor's that she entered without delay.
But before she had taken three steps she stopped, looking rather annoyed, for the head that rose from behind the tall desk was not rough and gray, but brown and smooth, and Mac, not Uncle Alec, sat there writing. Late experience had taught her that she had nothing to fear from a tete-a-tete and, having with difficulty taken a resolution, she did not like to fail of carrying it out.
“Don't get up, I won't trouble you if you are busy, there is no hurry,” she said, not quite sure whether it were wiser to stay or run away.
Mac settled the point by taking the pen out of her hand and beginning to cut it, as quietly as Nicholas did on that “thrilling” occasion. Perhaps he was thinking of that, for he smiled as he asked, “Hard or soft?”
Rose evidently had forgotten that the family of Squeers ever existed, for she answered: “Hard, please,” in a voice to match. “I'm glad to see you doing that,” she added, taking courage from his composure and going as straight to her point as could be expected of a woman.
“And I am very glad to do it.”
“I don't mean making pens, but the romance I advised,” and she touched the closely written page before him, looking as if she would like to read it.
“That is my abstract on a lecture on the circulation of the blood,” he answered, kindly turning it so that she could see. “I don't write romances I'm living one,” and he glanced up with the happy, hopeful expression which always made her feel as if he was heaping coals of fire on her head.
“I wish you wouldn't look at me in that way it fidgets me,” she said a little petulantly, for she had been out riding, and knew that she did not present a “spiritual” appearance after the frosty air had reddened nose as well as cheeks.
“I'll try to remember. It does itself before I know it. Perhaps this may mend matters.” And, taking out the blue glasses he sometimes wore in the wind, he gravely put them on.
Rose could not help laughing, but his obedience only aggravated her, for she knew he could observe her all the better behind his ugly screen.
“No, it won't they are not becoming, and I don't want to look blue when I do not feel so,” she said, finding it impossible to guess what he would do next or to help enjoying his peculiarities.
“But you don't to me, for in spite of the goggles everything is rose-colored now.” And he pocketed the glasses without a murmur at the charming inconsistency of his idol.
“Really, Mac, I'm tired of this nonsense, it worries me and wastes your time.”
“Never worked harder. But does it really trouble you to know I love you?” he asked anxiously.
“Don't you see how cross it makes me?” And she walked away, feeling that things were not going as she intended to have them at all.
“I don't mind the thorns if I get the rose at last, and I still hope I may, some ten years hence,” said this persistent suitor, quite undaunted by the prospect of a “long wait.”
“I think it is rather hard to be loved whether I like it or not,” objected Rose, at a loss how to make any headway against such indomitable hopefulness.
“But you can't help it, nor can I so I must go on doing it with all my heart till you marry, and then well, then I'm afraid I may hate somebody instead,” and Mac spoilt the pen by an involuntary slash of his knife.
“Please don't, Mac!”
“Do which, love or hate?”
“Don't do either go and care for someone else; there are plenty of nice girls who will be glad to make you happy,” said Rose, intent upon ending her disquiet in some way.
“That is too easy. I enjoy working for my blessings, and the harder I have to work, the more I value them when they come.”
“Then if I suddenly grew very kind, would you stop caring about me?” asked Rose, wondering if that treatment would free her from a passion which both touched and tormented her.
“Try and see.” But there was a traitorous glimmer in Mac's eyes which plainly showed what a failure it would be.
“No, I'll get something to do, so absorbing I shall forget all about you.”
“Don't think about me if it troubles you,” he said tenderly.
“I can't help it.” Rose tried to catch back the words, but it was too late, and she added hastily, “That is, I cannot help wishing you would forget me. It is a great disappointment to find I was mistaken when I hoped such fine things of you.”
“Yes, you were very sure that it was love when it was poetry, and now you want poetry when I've nothing on hand but love. Will both together please you?”
“Try and see.”
“I'll do my best. Anything else?” he asked, forgetting the small task she had given him in his eagerness to attempt the greater.
“Tell me one thing. I've often wanted to know, and now you speak of it I'll venture to ask. Did you care about me when you read Keats to me last summer?”
“No.”
“When did you begin?” asked Rose, smiling in spite of herself at his unflattering honesty.
“How can I tell? Perhaps it did begin up there, though, for that talk set us writing, and the letters showed me what a beautiful soul you had. I loved that first it was so quick to recognize good things, to use them when they came, and give them out again as unconsciously as a flower does its breath. I longed for you to come home, and wanted you to find me altered for the better in some way as I had found you. And when you came it was very easy to see why I needed you to love you entirely, and to tell you so. That's all, Rose.”
A short story, but it was enough the voice that told it with such simple truth made the few words so eloquent, Rose felt strongly tempted to add the sequel Mac desired. But her eyes had fallen as he spoke, for she knew his were fixed upon her, dark and dilated, with the same repressed emotion that put such fervor into his quiet tones, and just as she was about to look up, they fell on a shabby little footstool. Trifles affect women curiously, and often most irresistibly when some agitation sways them. The sight of the old hassock vividly recalled Charlie, for he had kicked it on the night she never liked to remember. Like a spark it fired a long train of recollections, and the thought went through her mind: “I fancied I loved him, and let him see it, but I deceived myself, and he reproached me for a single look that said too much. This feeling is very different, but too new and sudden to be trusted. I'll neither look nor speak till I am quite sure, for Mac's love is far deeper than poor Charlie's, and I must be very true.”
Not in words did the resolve shape itself, but in a quick impulse, which she obeyed certain that it was right, since it was hard to yield to it. Only an instant's silence followed Mac's answer as she stood looking down with fingers intertwined and color varying in her cheeks. A foolish attitude, but Mac thought it a sweet picture of maiden hesitation and began to hope that a month's wooing was about to end in winning for a lifetime. He deceived himself, however, and cold water fell upon his flame, subduing but by no means quenching it, when Rose looked up with an air of determination which could not escape eyes that were growing wonderfully farsighted lately.
“I came in here to beg Uncle to advise you to go away soon. You are very patient and forbearing, and I feel it more than I can tell. But it is not good for you to depend on anyone so much for your happiness, I think, and I know it is bad for me to feel that I have so much power over a fellow creature. Go away, Mac, and see if this isn't all a mistake. Don't let a fancy for me change or delay your work, because it may end as suddenly as it began, and then we should both reproach ourselves and each other. Please do! I respect and care for you so much, I can't be happy to take all and give nothing. I try to, but I'm not sure I want to think it is too soon to know yet.”
Rose began bravely, but ended in a fluttered sort of way as she moved toward the door, for Mac's face though it fell at first, brightened as she went on, and at the last word, uttered almost involuntarily, he actually laughed low to himself, as if this order into exile pleased him much.
“Don't say that you give nothing, when you've just shown me that I'm getting on. I'll go; I'll go at once, and see if absence won't help you 'to think, to know, and to be sure' as it did me. I wish I could do something more for you. As I can't, good-bye.”
“Are you going now?” And Rose paused in her retreat to look back with a startled face as he offered her a badly made pen and opened the door for her just as Dr. Alec always did; for, in spite of himself, Mac did resemble the best of uncles.
“Not yet, but you seem to be.”
Rose turned as red as a poppy, snatched the pen, and flew upstairs, to call herself hard names as she industriously spoiled all Aunt Plenty's new pocket handkerchiefs by marking them “A.M.C.”
Three days later Mac said “good-bye” in earnest, and no one was surprised that he left somewhat abruptly, such being his way, and a course of lectures by a famous physician the ostensible reason for a trip to L——. Uncle Alec deserted most shamefully at the last moment by sending word that he would be at the station to see the traveler off, Aunt Plenty was still in her room, so when Mac came down from his farewell to her, Rose met him in the hall, as if anxious not to delay him. She was a little afraid of another tete-a-tete, as she fared so badly at the last, and had assumed a calm and cousinly air which she flattered herself would plainly show on what terms she wished to part.
Mac apparently understood, and not only took the hint, but surpassed her in cheerful composure, for, merely saying “Good-bye, Cousin; write when you feel like it,” he shook hands and walked out of the house as tranquilly as if only a day instead of three months were to pass before they met again. Rose felt as if a sudden shower bath had chilled her and was about to retire, saying to herself with disdainful decision: “There's no love about it after all, only one of the eccentricities of genius,” when a rush of cold air made her turn to find herself in what appeared to be the embrace of an impetuous overcoat, which wrapped her close for an instant, then vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving her to hide in the sanctum and confide to Psyche with a tender sort of triumph in her breathless voice: “No, no, it isn't genius that must be love!”