Eight Cousins (Bedtime Story) Chapter 11

"Eight Cousins" by Louisa May Alcott follows the story of 13-year-old orphan Rose Campbell, who is sent to live with her extended family after the death of her father. Rose is surrounded by her seven male cousins, who are all determined to guide and influence her in different ways. Throughout the novel, Rose navigates the challenges of growing up, facing societal expectations, and finding her path in life. With the help of her cousins, Rose begins to discover her independence and strength as she grows into a confident young woman.

The novel explores themes of family, friendship, and personal growth, and ultimately celebrates the power of love and resilience.

Transcript

Chapter 11 The Poor Mac Rose's sacrifice was a failure in one respect,

Though the elders loved her the better for it and showed that they did.

The boys were not inspired with the sudden respect which she had hoped for.

In fact her feelings were much hurt by overhearing Archie say that he couldn't see any sense in it,

And the prince added another blow by pronouncing her the queerest chicken ever seen.

It is apt to be so,

And it is hard to bear,

For though we do not want trumpets blown,

We do like to have our little virtues appreciated,

And cannot help feeling disappointed if they are not.

A time soon came,

However,

When Rose quite unconsciously won not only the respect of her cousins,

But their gratitude and affection likewise.

Soon after the island episode Mac had a sunstroke,

And was very ill for some time.

It was so sudden that everyone was startled,

And for some days the boys' life was in danger.

He put through,

However,

And then just as the family were rejoicing a new trouble appeared which cast a gloom over them all.

Poor Mac's eyes gave out,

And while they might for he had abused them,

And never being very strong,

They suffered double now.

No one dared to tell him the dark predictions of the great oculist who came to look at them,

And the boy tried to be patient,

Thinking that a few weeks of rest would repair the overwork of several years.

He was forbidden to look at the book,

And as that was the one thing he most delighted in,

It was terrible affliction to the warm.

Everyone was very ready to read to him,

And at first the lads contented for his honor.

But as week after week went by,

And Mac was still condemned to idleness,

And a darkened room the zeal abated,

And one after the other fell off.

It was hard for the active fellows right in the midst of their vacation,

And nobody blamed them when they contented themselves with brief calls,

Running of errands,

And warm expressions of sympathy.

The elders did their best,

But Uncle Mac was a busy man,

And Jane's reading was a funeral sort,

Impossible to listen too long,

And the other aunties were all absorded in their own cares,

Though they supplied the boy with every delicacy they could invent.

Uncle Alec was a host in himself,

But he could not give all his time to the invalid,

And if it had not been for Rose,

The afflicted warm would have fared ill.

Her pleasant voice suited him,

Her patience was unfailing,

Her time of no apparent value,

And her eager goodwill was very comforting.

The womanly power of self-devotion was strong in the child,

And she remained faithfully at her post when all the rest dropped away.

Hour after hour she sat in the dusky room with one ray of light on her book,

Reading to the boy who lay with shaded eyes silently enjoying the only pleasure that lightened the weary days.

Sometimes he was peevish and hard to please,

Sometimes he growled because his reader could not manage the dry books he wished to hear,

And sometimes he was so despondent that her heart ached to see him.

Throughout these trials Rose perceived using all her little arts to please him.

When he fretted,

She was patient,

When he growled,

She plod bravely through the hard pages,

Not try to her in one sense,

For quiet tears dropped on them now and then,

And when Mac fell into despairing mood she comforted him with every hopeful word she dared to offer.

He said little,

But she knew he was grateful,

For she suited him better than anyone else.

If she was late he was impatient,

When she had to go he seemed forlorn,

And when the tired head ached worst she could always suit him to sleep,

Crooning the old songs her father used to love.

I don't know what I should do without that child,

Aunt Jane often said.

She is word of all those racketing fellows put together,

Mac would add,

Pummeling about to discover if the little chair was ready for her coming.

That was the sort of reward Rose liked,

The thanks that cheered her,

And whenever she grew very tired one look at the green shade,

The curly head so restless on the pillow,

And the poor groping hands touched her tender heart and put new spirit into the weary voice.

She did not know how much she was learning,

Both from the books she read and the daily sacrifices she made.

Stories and poetry were her delight,

But Mac did not care for them,

And since his favorite Greeks and Romans were forbidden he satisfied himself with travels,

Biographies,

And the history of great inventions or discoveries.

Rose despised this taste at first,

But soon got interested in Livingstone's adventures,

Hobson's Stirring Life in India,

And the brave trials and triumphs of Watt and Oakwright.

Fulton and Pallisita Potter,

The two strong books,

Helped the dreamy girl,

Her faithful service and sweet patience,

Touched and won the boy,

And long afterward both learned to see how useful those seemingly hard and weary hours had been to them.

One bright morning as Rose now to begin a fat volume entitled History of the French Revolution,

Expecting to come to great grief over the long names,

Mac,

Who was slumbering about the room like a blind bear,

Stopped her by asking abruptly,

What day of the month is this?

The 7th of August,

I believe,

More than half of my vacation gone,

And I've only had week of it.

I called that hard,

And he groaned dismally,

So it is,

But there is more to come,

And you may be able to enjoy that.

May be able,

I will be able,

Does that old noodle think I'm going to stay stifed up here much longer?

Has he said anything more lately?

I haven't seen him,

You know.

Shall I begin?

This looks rather nice.

Read away.

It's all one to me.

Mac cast himself down upon the old lounge.

Rose began with great spirit,

And kept on gallantly for a couple of chapters,

Getting over the humble names with unexpected success.

She thought for her listener did not correct her once,

And lay so still she fancied he was deeply interested.

Then she was arrested in the middle of a fine paragraph by Mac,

Who sat both upright,

Brought both feet down with a thump,

And said in a rough excited tone,

Stop,

I don't hear a word,

And you may as well save your breath to answer my question.

What is it?

Asked Rose,

Looking uneasy,

For she had something on her mind,

And feared that he suspected what it was.

His next words proved that she was right.

Now look here,

And you've got to tell me.

Please don't.

You must,

Or I will put off this shade and stare at the sun as hard as ever I can stare.

Come now.

And he half rose,

As if ready to execute the threat.

Oh,

I will,

I will tell,

If I know,

But don't be reckless,

And do anything so crazy as that,

Cried Rose in great distress.

Then listen,

And don't dodge,

As everyone else does.

The doctor thinked my eyes worse.

The last time he came,

Mother won't say,

But you shall.

I believe he did.

I thought so.

Did he say I should be able to go to school when it begins?

No,

Mac.

That was all but Rose saw her cousin set his lips together and take a long breath,

As if she had hit him hard.

He bore the disappointment bravely,

However,

And asked quite steadily in a minute,

How soon does he think I can study again?

It was so hard to answer that.

Yet Rose knew she must,

For Aunt Jane had declared she could not do it.

And Uncle Mac had begged her to break the truth to the poor lad.

Not for a good many months.

How many?

He asked with a pathetic sort of roughness.

A year,

Perhaps.

A whole year?

Why?

I expected to be ready for college that time.

And pushing up the shade,

Mac stared at her with startled eyes that soon blinked and fell before one ray of light.

Plenty of time for that,

She said,

With tears in her own eyes.

I won't do it.

I will study and get through somehow.

It is so humbug,

But taking care so long.

These doctors like to keep hold of a fellow,

They can.

But I won't stand it.

I won't.

And he banged his fist down on the unoffending pillow,

As if he were pummeling the hard-hearted doctor.

Now,

Mac,

Listen to me,

Rose said very earnestly,

Though her voice shook a little and her heart ached.

You know you have hurt your eyes reading by firelight at the dusk and sitting up late.

And now you will have to pay for it,

The doctor said so.

You must be careful and do as he tells you,

Or you will be blind.

No.

Yes,

It is true,

And he wanted us to tell you that nothing but the entire rest would cure you.

I know it is dreadfully hard,

But we will all help you.

I'll read all day long and lead you and wait upon you and try to make it easier.

She stopped there,

For it was evident that he did not hear a sound.

The word blind seemed to have knocked him down.

For he had buried his face into the pillow and lay so still that Rose was frightened,

She sat motionless for many minutes,

Longing to comfort him,

But not knowing how and wishing Uncle Alec would come home,

For he had promised to tell.

Presently a sort of choking sound came out of the pillow and went straight to her heart,

The most pathetic sob she ever heard.

The poor fellow must not indulge in it because of the afflicted eyes.

The French Revolution tumbled out,

And running to the sofa,

She knelt down by it,

Saying,

With the mutterly sort of tenderness girls feel for any sorrowing creature.

Oh,

My dear,

You mustn't cry.

Take your head out of that hot pillow and let me cool it.

I don't wonder you feel so.

Please don't cry.

I'll cry for you.

It won't hurt me.

As she spoke,

She put away the cushion with gentle force and saw the green shade,

All crushed and stained,

With the few hot tears and told how bitter the disappointment had been.

Mac felt her sympathy,

But being a boy did not thank her for it,

Only sat up with a jerk,

Saying,

As he tried to rub away the tell-tale drops with sleeve of his jacket,

Don't bother.

I am all right.

But Rose cried out and caught his arm.

There's a dear boy,

Then there will be no harm done.

They do smart confoundly,

I say.

Don't you tell the other fellows that I made a baby of myself.

Will you?

He added,

Yelding with a sigh,

To the orders of his nurse,

Who had flown for the eye-wash and linen handkerchief.

Of course I won't,

But anyone would be upset at the idea of being well put 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,

And you can do lots of pleasant things if you can study.

You'll have to wear blue goggles.

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.

Homer was blind,

And so was Milton,

And they did something to be remembered by in spite of it,

He said himself,

In solemn tone,

For even the blue goggles did not bring a smile.

Homer 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.

Perhaps I could study if someone read and did the eye part.

You suppose I could buy and buy,

He asked with a sudden ray of hope.

I dare say,

If your head is strong enough,

This sunstroke you know is what upset you,

And your brain needs 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,

Bestewing my brains and letting the sun glare on my book,

Till the letters danced before me.

I see them now when I shut my eyes,

Black balls bobbing around,

And stars and all sort 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 will forget all about this,

Suggested Rose.

No,

I never shall forget.

I don't want to hear another word of it.

My head aches,

And I'm hot,

Or wouldn't I like to go for a pull in the stormy petrol?

And poor Matt tossed about as if he did not know what to do with himself.

Let me sing and perhaps you will 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.

You tell the people that I know it's all right,

And I don't want them to talk about it or howl over me,

That is all.

Now thrown 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,

Scrub for her apron and hold on to corner of it,

As if it was comfortable to feel her near him,

But all he said was,

You are a good little soul,

Rosie,

Quite contented with this small return for all her sympathy.

Rose waved her fan and sang in a dreamy tone,

A pretty Scotch air,

The burks of Aberfroldy.

Whether the lassie went or not I cannot say,

But the laddie was off to the land of Nord.

In about ten minutes,

Quite worn out with hearing the bad tidings,

And the effort to bear them manfully.

Reviews

Poor Mac indeed! She’s a little trooper though… thank you!