Part 19 (1/2)
”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 any one 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 some one 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 sun-stroke, you know, is what upset you, and your brains need 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 ap.r.o.n 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 la.s.sie, will ye gang, will ye gang To the Birks of Aberfeldie?”
Whether the la.s.sie 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.
CHAPTER XII.
”_THE OTHER FELLOWS._”
ROSE did tell ”the people” what had pa.s.sed, and no one ”howled” over Mac, or said a word to trouble him. He had his talk with the doctor, and got very little comfort out of it, for he found that ”just what he might do” was nothing at all; though the prospect of some study by and by, if all went well, gave him courage to bear the woes of the present. Having made up his mind to this, he behaved so well that every one was astonished, never having suspected so much manliness in the quiet Worm.
The boys were much impressed, both by the greatness of the affliction which hung over him and by his way of bearing it. They were very good to him, but not always particularly wise in their attempts to cheer and amuse; and Rose often found him much downcast after a visit of condolence from the Clan. She still kept her place as head-nurse and chief-reader, though the boys did their best in an irregular sort of way. They were rather taken aback sometimes at finding Rose's services preferred to theirs, and privately confided to one another that ”Old Mac was getting fond of being molly-coddled.” But they could not help seeing how useful she was, and owning that she alone had remained faithful,--a fact which caused some of them much secret compunction now and then.
Rose felt that she ruled in that room, if nowhere else, for Aunt Jane left a great deal to her, finding that her experience with her invalid father fitted her for a nurse, and in a case like this her youth was an advantage rather than a drawback. Mac soon came to think that no one could take care of him so well as Rose, and Rose soon grew fond of her patient, though at first she had considered this cousin the least attractive of the seven. He was not polite and sensible like Archie, nor gay and handsome like Prince Charlie, nor neat and obliging like Steve, nor amusing like the ”Brats,” nor confiding and affectionate like little Jamie. He was rough, absent-minded, careless, and awkward, rather priggish, and not at all agreeable to a dainty, beauty-loving girl like Rose.
But when his trouble came upon him, she discovered many good things in this cousin of hers, and learned not only to pity but to respect and love the poor Worm, who tried to be patient, brave, and cheerful, and found it a harder task than any one guessed, except the little nurse, who saw him in his gloomiest moods. She soon came to think that his friends did not appreciate him, and upon one occasion was moved to free her mind in a way that made a deep impression on the boys.