But to return to Owen Warland. It was his fortune, good or ill,to achieve the purpose of his life. Pass we over a long space ofintense thought, yearning effort, minute toil, and wasting anxiety,succeeded by an instant of solitary triumph; let all this be imagined;and then behold the artist, on a winter evening, seeking admittance toRobert Danforth's fireside circle. There he found the Man of Iron,with his massive substance, thoroughly warmed and attempered bydomestic influences. And there was Annie, too, now transformed intoa matron, with much of her husband's plain and sturdy nature, butimbued, as Owen Warland still believed, with a finer grace, that mightenable her to be the interpreter between Strength and Beauty. Ithappened, likewise, that old Peter Hovenden was a guest, this evening,at his daughter's fireside; and it was his well-rememberedexpression of keen, cold criticism, that first encountered theartist's glance.
"My old friend Owen!" cried Robert Danforth, starting up, andcompressing the artist's delicate fingers within a hand that wasaccustomed to gripe bars of iron. "This is kind and neighborly, tocome to us at last! I was afraid your Perpetual Motion had bewitchedyou out of the remembrance of old times.""We are glad to see you!" said Annie, while a blush reddened hermatronly cheek. "It was not like a friend to stay from us so long.""Well, Owen," inquired the old watchmaker, as his first greeting,"how comes on the Beautiful? Have you created it at last?"The artist did not immediately reply, being startled by theapparition of a young child of strength, that was tumbling about onthe carpet; a little personage who had come mysteriously out of theinfinite, but with something so sturdy and real in his compositionthat he seemed moulded out of the densest substance which earthcould supply. This hopeful infant crawled towards the newcomer, andsetting himself on end- as Robert Danforth expressed the posture-stared at Owen with a look of such sagacious observation, that themother could not help exchanging a proud glance with her husband.
But the artist was disturbed by the child's look, as imagining aresemblance between it and Peter Hovenden's habitual expression. Hecould have fancied that the old watchmaker was compressed into thisbaby-shape, and looking out of those baby-eyes, and repeating- as henow did- the malicious question: "The Beautiful, Owen! How comes onthe Beautiful? Have you succeeded in creating the Beautiful?""I have succeeded," replied the artist, with a momentary light oftriumph in his eyes, and a smile of sunshine, yet steeped in suchdepth of thought, that it was almost sadness. "Yes, my friends, itis the truth. I have succeeded!""Indeed!" cried Annie, a look of maiden mirthfulness peeping out ofher face again. "And is it lawful, now, to inquire what the secretis?""Surely; it is to disclose it, that I have come," answered OwenWarland. "You shall know, and see, and touch, and possess thesecret! For, Annie- if by that name I may still address the friendof my boyish years- Annie, it is for your bridal gift that I havewrought this spiritualized mechanism, this harmony of motion, thisMystery of Beauty! It comes late, indeed; but it is as we go onward inlife, when objects begin to lose their freshness of hue, and our soulstheir delicacy of perception, that the spirit of Beauty is mostneeded. If- forgive me, Annie- if you know how to value this gift,it can never come too late!"He produced, as he spoke, what seemed a jewel-box. It was carvedrichly out of ebony by his own hand, and inlaid with a fancifultracery of pearl, representing a boy in pursuit of a butterfly, which,elsewhere, had become a winged spirit, and was flying heavenward;while the boy, or youth, had found such efficacy in his strong desire,that he ascended from earth to cloud, and from cloud to celestialatmosphere, to win the Beautiful. This case of ebony the artistopened, and bade Annie place her finger on its edge. She did so, butalmost screamed, as a butterfly fluttered forth, and, alighting on herfinger's tip, sat waving the ample magnificence of its purple andgold-speckled wings, as if in prelude to a flight. It is impossible toexpress by words the glory, the splendor, the delicate gorgeousness,which were softened into the beauty of this object. Nature's idealbutterfly was here realized in all its perfection; not in thepattern of such faded insects as flit among earthly flowers, but ofthose which hover across the meads of Paradise, for child-angels andthe spirits of departed infants to disport themselves with. The richdown was visible upon its wings; the lustre of its eyes seemedinstinct with spirit. The firelight glimmered around this wonder-the candles gleamed upon it- but it glistened apparently by its ownradiance, and illuminated the finger and outstretched hand on which itrested, with a white gleam like that of precious stones. In itsperfect beauty, the consideration of size was entirely lost. Had itswings overreached the firmament, the mind could not have been morefilled or satisfied.
"Beautiful! Beautiful!" exclaimed Annie. "Is it alive? Is italive?""Alive? To be sure it is," answered her husband. "Do you supposeany mortal has skill enough to make a butterfly- or would puthimself to the trouble of making one, when any child may catch a scoreof them in a summer's afternoon? Alive? certainly! But this pretty boxis undoubtedly of our friend Owen's manufacture; and really it doeshim credit."At this moment, the butterfly waved its wings anew, with a motionso absolutely lifelike that Annie was startled, and even awe-stricken;for, in spite of her husband's opinion, she could not satisfyherself whether it was indeed a living creature, or a piece ofwondrous mechanism.
"Is it alive?" she repeated, more earnestly than before.
"Judge for yourself," said Owen Warland, who stood gazing in herface with fixed attention.
