“Johnnie, is there anything the matter. Why have you been sitting
there?” cried I.
“Oh, no, there’s nothing the matter,” said Johnnie, in such a tone as a
wild beast making a snap at one might have used if it had possessed the
faculty of words. “I was there because I happened to be there before you
came into the room, Mrs. Crofton; I beg your pardon! I don’t mean to be
rude.”
“I think it is quite necessary you should say as much,” said I. “Your
sisters and I have been talking here for some time, quite unaware of
your presence. That is not becoming. No one ought to do such things,
especially a young man of right feeling like yourself.”
“Oh, you think I have right feelings,” cried Johnnie, bitterly, “you
think I am man enough to know what honor means? That is something, at
least. I have been well brought up, haven’t I? Mrs. Crofton,” continued
the unfortunate youth, “you were rather hard upon Maurice just now--I
heard you, and he deserves it. If I were like Maurice, I should be
ashamed to be as useless as he is. I’m not so useless now, in spite of
everything; but you’ll be frank with me--why does Alice speak of keeping
house with my mother and _Johnnie_? Why, when Kate, and even little
Mary, are supposed to have homes of their own, and Maurice, of course,
to be provided for--why is there to be a special establishment, all
neutral colored and in the shade, for my mother, and Alice, and _me_?”
I sat gazing at the poor youth in the most profound confusion and
amazement. What could I say to him? How, if he did not perceive it
himself, could I explain the naturalness of poor Alice’s anticipations?
I had not a word to say; his question took me entirely by surprise, and
struck me dumb--it was unanswerable.
“You do not say anything,” said Johnnie, vehemently. “Why does Alice
suppose _she_ will have to take care of me all my life through? Why
should I go to contribute that alternative of shade which makes the
landscape picturesque?--picturesque!” exclaimed poor Johnnie, breathing
out the words upon a long breath of wrath and indignation; “is that all
I am good for? Do you suppose God has made me in a man’s form, with a
man’s heart, only to add a subtle charm to another man’s happiness by
the contrast of my misery? I believe in no such thing, Mrs. Crofton. Is
that what Alice means?”
“I believe in no such thing either,” said I, relieved to be able to say
something; “and you forget, Johnnie, that the same life which Alice
assigned to you she chose for herself. She thought, I suppose, because
your health is not strong, that you would choose to live at home--she
thought”----
“Mrs. Crofton,” said Johnnie, “why don’t you say it out? she
thought--but why say thought--she _knew_ I was a cripple, and debarred
from the joyous life of man; she thought that to such as me no heavenly
help could come; it did not occur to her that perhaps there might be an
angel in the spheres who would love me, succor me, give me a place among
the happy--yes, even me! You think I speak like a fool,” continued the
young man, the flush of his excitement brightening all his face, and the
natural superlatives of youth, all the warmer and stronger for the
physical infirmities which seemed to shut him out from their legitimate
use, pouring to his lips, “and so I should have been, but for the divine
chance that brought me here. Ah, Mrs. Crofton, you did not know what an
Easter of the soul you were asking me to! I came only a boy, scarcely
aware of the dreary colors in which life lay before me. Now I can look
at these dreary colors only by way of Alice’s contrast--to make the
reality more glorious--for I too shall have the home and the life of a
man!”
He stopped, not because his words were exhausted, but because breath
failed him--he stood before me, raising himself erect out of his
habitual stoop of weakness, strengthened by the inspiring force of the
great delusion, which gave color to his face and nerve to his hand.
Looking at him so, his words did not seem such sad, bitter,
heart-breaking folly as they were. Poor boy! poor Johnnie! how would he
fall prostrate upon the cold, unconsolatory earth, when this spell was
broken! I could have cried over him, as he stood there defying me; he
had drunk that cup of Circe--but he did not know in his momentary
intoxication that it was poison to him.
“My dear Johnnie,” said I, “I am very glad of anything that makes you
happy--but there is surely no occasion to speak so strongly. Alice, I
must remind you again, chose exactly the same life for herself that she
supposed for you”----
“Alice has had her youth and her choice,” said Johnnie, with a calmer
tone, and sinking, his first excitement over, into a chair; “but she
does not think Maurice is likely to share that gray life of
hers--Maurice, who, as you say yourself, is of no use in the world--nor
Harry, whom they have all forgotten now he is in Australia, nor the
children at home; only mamma when she is old, and _Johnnie_--well, it is
of no use speaking. A man’s business is not to speak, but to work.”
“That is very true, certainly,” said I: “but tell me, will you--if it is
not wrong to ask--what has made this great change in your ideas, all at
once?”
“Ah, Mrs. Crofton, don’t you know?” cried Johnnie, blushing, a soft
overpowering youthful blush, which would have done no discredit to Clara
herself; and the poor, foolish boy looked at me with an appealing
triumphant look, as if he at once entreated me to say, and defied me to
deny that _she_ was altogether an angel, and he the very happiest of
boys or men.
“My dear boy,” said I, “don’t be angry with me. I’ve known you all your
life, Johnnie. I don’t mean to say a word against Miss Reredos--but tell
me, has there been any explanation between her and you?”
He hesitated a moment, blushing still.
“No,” he said, after a pause; “no--I have not been able to arrange my
thoughts at all yet. I have thought of nothing but--but herself--and
this unimaginable hope of happiness--and I am a man of honor, Mrs.
Crofton. I will not speak to her till I know whether I have anything but
love to offer--not because I am so base as to suppose that money could
recommend a man to _her_, or so foolish as to think that I will ever
have anything beyond _income_; but when I do speak, you understand, Mrs.
Crofton, it is not for vague love-making, but to ask her to be my wife.”
He looked at me with his sudden air of manhood and independence, again
somewhat defiant. Heaven help the poor boy! I heard myself groaning
aloud in the extremity of my bewilderment and confusion; poor Johnnie,
with his superb self-assumption!--he, a fortnight ago, the cheerfulest
of boy invalids, the kindest of widow’s sons!--and she, five years older
than he, at the lowest reckoning, an experienced young lady, with dreams
of settlements and trousseaux occupying her mature mind! Alack, alack!
what was to come of it? I sat silent, almost gaping with wonderment at
the boy. At last I caught at the idea of asking him what his prospects
or intentions were--though without an idea that he had any prospects, or
knew in the least what he was talking about.
“You spoke of income, Johnnie--may I ask what you were thinking of?”
Johnnie blushed once more, though after a different fashion; he grew
confidential and eager--like himself.
“I have told no one else,” he said, “but I will tell you, Mrs. Crofton,
not only because you are our oldest friend, but because I have just told
you something so much more important. I--I have written
something--nobody knows!”
“Oh, you poor boy!” cried I, quite thankful to be able on less delicate
ground to make an outcry over him; “don’t you think half the people in
the country have written something?--and are you to make an income by
that?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Johnnie, with dignity, “but it’s _accepted_,
Mrs. Crofton--that makes all the difference. Half the country don’t have
letters from the booksellers saying that it’s very good and they’ll
publish it on the usual terms. I could show you the letter,” added my
young author, blushing once more, and putting his hand to his
breast-pocket--“I have it here.”
And there it was, accordingly, to my intense wonderment--and Johnnie’s
hopes had, however small, an actual foundation. On the book about to be
published on “the usual terms” the poor boy had built up his castle.
Here he was to bring Miss Reredos to a fairy bower of love and
literature--which, alas! I doubted would be very little to that young
lady’s taste; but I dared not tell Johnnie so--poor, dreaming, foolish
cripple-boy! Nothing afterwards, perhaps, would taste so sweet as that
delusion, and though the natural idea that “it would be kindness to
undeceive him” of course moved me strongly, I had not the boldness to
try, knowing very well that it would do no good. He must undeceive
himself, that was evident. Thank Heaven he was so young! When his eyes
were opened he would be the bitterest and most miserable of misanthropes
for a few months, and then, it was to be hoped, things would mend. I saw
no other ending to Johnnie’s romance. But he went hobbling away from me
with his stick and his stoop, as full of his momentary fallacious
happiness, as if he had been the handsome young prince of the fairy
tale, whom the love of Miss Reredos would charm back to his proper
comeliness. Alas, poor Johnnie! If his Laura could have wrought that
miracle I fear the spell was still impossible, for lack of the
love--miraculous magic! the only talisman which even in a fairy tale can
charm the lost beauty back.