Rose in Bloom by Louisa May Alcott

marry Phebe, nothing could change this plan except a word from

her.

He watched and waited for three months, so that he might not be

accused of precipitation, though it did not take him one to decide

that this was the woman to make him happy. Her steadfast nature,

quiet, busy ways, and the reserved power and passion betrayed

sometimes by a flash of the black eyes, a quiver of the firm lips,

suited Archie, who possessed many of the same attributes himself.

The obscurity of her birth and isolation of her lot, which would

have deterred some lovers, not only appealed to his kindly heart,

but touched the hidden romance which ran like a vein of gold

through his strong common sense and made practical, steady-going

Archie a poet when he fell in love. If Uncle Mac had guessed what

dreams and fancies went on in the head bent over his ledgers, and

what emotions were fermenting in the bosom of his staid

“right-hand man,” he would have tapped his forehead and

suggested a lunatic asylum. The boys thought Archie had sobered

down too soon. His mother began to fear that the air of the

counting room did not suit him, and Dr. Alec was deluded into the

belief that the fellow really began to “think of Rose,” he came so

often in the evening, seeming quite content to sit beside her

worktable and snip tape or draw patterns while they chatted.

No one observed that, though he talked to Rose on these occasions,

he looked at Phebe, in her low chair close by, busy but silent, for

she always tried to efface herself when Rose was near and often

mourned that she was too big to keep out of sight. No matter what

he talked about, Archie always saw the glossy black braids on the

other side of the table, the damask cheek curving down into the

firm white throat, and the dark lashes, lifted now and then,

showing eyes so deep and soft he dared not look into them long.

Even the swift needle charmed him, the little brooch which rose

and fell with her quiet breath, the plain work she did, and the tidy

way she gathered her bits of thread into a tiny bag. He seldom

spoke to her; never touched her basket, though he ravaged Rose’s if

he wanted string or scissors; very rarely ventured to bring her some

curious or pretty thing when ships came in from China only sat and

thought of her, imagined that this was his parlor, this her

worktable, and they two sitting there alone a happy man and wife.

At this stage of the little evening drama he would be conscious of

such a strong desire to do something rash that he took refuge in a

new form of intoxication and proposed music, sometimes so

abruptly that Rose would pause in the middle of a sentence and

look at him, surprised to meet a curiously excited look in the

usually cool gray eyes.

Then Phebe, folding up her work, would go to the piano, as if glad

to find a vent for the inner life which she seemed to have no power

of expressing except in song. Rose would follow to accompany

her, and Archie, moving to a certain shady corner whence he could

see Phebe’s face as she sang, would give himself up to unmitigated

rapture for half an hour. Phebe never sang so well as at such times,

for the kindly atmosphere was like sunshine to a bird, criticisms

were few and gentle, praises hearty and abundant, and she poured

out her soul as freely as a spring gushes up when its hidden source

is full.

In moments such as these Phebe was beautiful with the beauty that

makes a man’s eye brighten with honest admiration and fills his

heart with a sense of womanly nobility and sweetness. Little

wonder, then, that the chief spectator of this agreeable tableau

grew nightly more enamored, and while the elders were deep in

whist, the young people were playing that still more absorbing

game in which hearts are always trumps.

Rose, having Dummy for a partner, soon discovered the fact and

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