“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.
CHAPTER XII.
“Now, if I had the luck to hold a confidential talk with Maurice, I should have gone round the entire Harley family,” said I to myself the next morning, “and be in the secret of sundry imaginations which have not seen the light of day—but Maurice, fortunately, is not likely to make me nor any one else his confidante. I wonder if there is anything at all concerning him which it would be worth one’s while to be curious about?”
The question was solved sooner than I thought. When everybody had left our pleasant breakfast-room but myself, and I, with my little basket of keys in my hand, was preparing to follow, Maurice, who had been lingering by the great window, startled me by asking for a few minutes’ conversation, “if I was quite at leisure.” I put down my basket with the utmost promptitude. Curiosity, if not courtesy, made me perfectly at leisure to hear anything he might have to say.
“I have undertaken a very foolish office,” said Maurice—“I have had the supreme conceit and presumption of supposing that I could perhaps plead with you, Mrs. Crofton, the cause of a friend.”
“I trust I shall feel sufficiently flattered,” said I, assuming the same tone. “And pray who is the friend who has the advantage of your support, Maurice? and what does he want of me?”
The young man colored and looked affronted—he was highly sensitive to ridicule, like all self-regarding men.
“Nay, pray don’t convince me so distinctly of my folly before I start,” he said; “the friend is a college friend of mine, who was so absurd as to marry before he had anything to live on; a very good fellow with—oh! don’t be afraid—perfectly sound views, I assure you, Mrs. Crofton, though he is acquainted with me.”
“I should think being acquainted with you very likely to help a sensible man to sound views,” said I, with some natural spite, thankful for the opportunity of sending a private arrow into him in passing; “and what does your friend want that I can help him in?”