March of Books - Rose in Bloom

I have a confession to make.

I'm really bad at book reviews.

See, it annoys me sometimes when I go to read a review and it completely spoils the story for me because someone comments on so many of the details. So I try to steer clear of doing that. Which means that I usually end up 'reviewing' a book by saying, "I loved this!" or "This was awful!"

A few years ago I decided to sit down and read everything by Louisa May Alcott that I could get my hands on. It was a great month! Everyone knows about Little Women, some people know about Little Men, Jo's Boys, and Eight Cousins, but it seems that the two least-known books of Miss Alcott's are An Old Fashioned Girl and Rose in Bloom.

Rose in Bloom is the sequel to Eight Cousins, following the cousins as they grow up. There's no end of trouble as the cousins try "high society", fall in love, and forge new and life-changing friendships. No matter what troubles the clan face, they stick together while Dr. Alec tries to steer them right. And in the end, almost everyone is safe and happy. I won't say who ends up *not* safe and happy, only that the first half dozen times I read the book I found myself dissolving into tears.

Though I just said that I hate reviews that spoil things, I have to share this little passage from the last chapter. It makes me so happy! If you have plans to read the book, don't ruin it for yourself by reading this. =)

The room was a blaze of sunshine and a bower of spring freshness and fragrance, for here Rose had let her fancy have free play, and each garland, fern, and flower had its meaning. Mac seemed to have been reading this sweet language of symbols, to have guessed why Charlie's little picture was framed in white roses, why pansies hung about his own, why Psyche was half hidden among feathery sprays of maidenhair, and a purple passion flower lay at Cupid's feet. The last fancy evidently pleased him, for he was smiling over it, and humming to himself as if to beguile his patient waiting, the burden of the air Rose had so often sung to him:

"Bonny lassie, will ye gang, will ye gang
To the birks of Aberfeldie?"

"Yes, Mac, anywhere!"

He had not heard her enter, and wheeling around, looked at her with a radiant face as he said, drawing a long breath, "At last! You were so busy over the dear man, I got no word. But I can wait–I'm used to it."

Rose stood quite still, surveying him with a new sort of reverence in her eyes, as she answered with a sweet solemnity that made him laugh and redden with the sensitive joy of one to whom praise from her lips was very precious: "You forget that you are not the Mac who went away. I should have run to meet my cousin, but I did not dare to be familiar with the poet whom all begin to honor."

"You like the mixture, then? You know I said I'd try to give you love and poetry together."

"Like it! I'm so glad, so proud, I haven't any words strong and beautiful enough to half express my wonder and my admiration. How could you do it, Mac?" And a whole face full of smiles broke loose as Rose clapped her hands, looking as if she could dance with sheer delight.

"It did itself, up there among the hills, and here with you, or out alone upon the sea. I could write a heavenly poem this very minute, and put you in as Spring–you look like her in that green gown with snowdrops in your bonny hair. Rose, am I getting on a little? Does a hint of fame help me nearer to the prize I'm working for? Is your heart more willing to be won?"

He did not stir a step, but looked at her with such intense longing that his glance seemed to draw her nearer like an irresistible appeal, for she went and stood before him, holding out both hands, as if she offered all her little store, as she said with simplest sincerity: "It is not worth so much beautiful endeavor, but if you still want so poor a thing, it is yours."

He caught her hands in his and seemed about to take the rest of her, but hesitated for an instant, unable to believe that so much happiness was true.

"Are you sure, Rose–very sure? Don't let a momentary admiration blind you–I'm not a poet yet, and the best are but mortal men, you know."

"It is not admiration, Mac."

"Nor gratitude for the small share I've taken in saving Uncle? I had my debt to pay, as well as Phebe, and was as glad to risk my life."

"No–it is not gratitude."

"Nor pity for my patience? I've only done a little yet, and I am as far as ever from being like your hero. I can work and wait still longer if you are not sure, for I must have all or nothing."

"Oh, Mac! Why will you be so doubtful? You said you'd make me love you, and you've done it. Will you believe me now?" And, with a sort of desperation, she threw herself into his arms, clinging there in eloquent silence while he held her close; feeling, with a thrill of tender triumph, that this was no longer little Rose, but a loving woman, ready to live and die for him.

"Now I'm satisfied!" he said presently, when she lifted up her face, full of maidenly shame at the sudden passion which had carried her out of herself for a moment. "No–don't slip away so soon. Let me keep you for one blessed minute and feel that I have really found my Psyche."

"And I my Cupid," answered Rose, laughing, in spite of her emotion, at the idea of Mac in that sentimental character.

He laughed, too, as only a happy lover could, then said, with sudden seriousness: "Sweet soul! Lift up your lamp and look well before it is too late, for I'm no god, only a very faulty man."

"Dear love! I will. But I have no fear, except that you will fly too high for me to follow, because I have no wings."

Rose in Bloom online edition.
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