But imagination is obstinate and not to be quenched, and in inadvertent
moments she half acknowledged to herself that it had a being and a name.
Who or what he was, indeed, she could not tell; but sometimes in her
imagination the remembered tone of a voice would thrill her ears, or a
pair of eyes would look into hers. This recollection or imagination
would flash upon her at the most inappropriate moments; sometimes when
she was busy with her semi-maternal cares, or full of household
occupation which left her thoughts free--moments when she was without
defence. Indeed, temptation would come upon her in this respect from the
most innocent quarter, from her little brother, who looked up at her
with eyes that were like the eyes of her dream. Was that why he had
become her darling, her favorite, among the children? Oh, no; it was
because he was the youngest, the baby, the one to whom a mother was most
of all wanting. Aunt Sophy, indeed, who was so fond of finding out
likenesses, had said-- And there was a certain truth in it. Johnny’s eyes
were very large and dark, shining out of the paleness of his little
face; he was a delicate child; or perhaps only a pale-faced child
looking delicate, for there never was anything the matter with him. His
eyes were very large for a child, appearing so, perhaps, because he was
himself so little; a child of fine organization, with the most delicate,
pure complexion, and blue veins showing distinctly through the delicate
tissue of his skin. Rosalind felt a sort of dreamy bliss come over her
when Johnny fixed his great, soft eyes upon her, looking up with a
child’s devout attention. She loved the child dearly, was not that
enough? And then there was the suggestion. Likenesses are very curious;
they are so arbitrary, no one can tell how they come; there was a
likeness, she admitted to herself; and then wondered--half wishing it,
half angry with herself for the idea--whether perhaps it was the
likeness to her little brother which had impressed the face of a
stranger so deeply upon her dreams.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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