38. XXXVIII.
THE PORTRAIT.
FALCONBRIDGE found a cheerful fire burning in
the wide fire-place of his sleeping apartment, for
the November nights were growing cold, and
rendered it necessary.
Old John saw that all was disposed agreeably for his
master's guest, and then respectfully edging toward the
door, quietly disappeared. Falconbridge was left alone,
seated in front of the fire, into which he gazed long, with
thoughtful eyes. His mind had been filled with new emotions
lately; his life subjected to many novel influences.
The beautiful woman, the melancholy nobleman, the jovial
Borderer, the wild region, into which he had been so grimly
welcomed by the Indian assault; all these personages and
objects had flooded his life with new thoughts and feelings,
and were now the subject of his vague reverie.
From time to time a smile would flit over the handsome
features of the young man; and then a frown and an expression
of pity would succeed. Miss Argal was the origin of
the happy smile, the strange letter of the mad lover who had
killed himself, caused the frown, and the commiserating
shadow.
Falconbridge mused thus for more than an hour, taking
no notice of the pattering drops which fell down from the
wax candle on the silver candlestick, without observing that
the fire was dying out, and that the dimly-lit apartment began
to grow chill, as well as to assume a weird, ghost-like
appearance in the flickering light of the single candle. As
the light wavered to and fro, immense shadows chased each
other across the walls and the ceiling; a melancholy “deathwatch”
tapped in the wainscoting; and a bough of one of
the trees creaked nervously against the pane of the window.
A fanciful imagination might have seen shadowy faces, peering
in through the dim panes, or fancied that goblin fingers
were tugging at the grating bells in the old belfries.
Falconbridge heard all these weird, low sounds, but did
not heed them; he pursued his reverie. But finally his
meditations came to an end; he banished them from his
mind, and drawing a long breath, rose erect, and looked
around him. As his eyes fell upon a picture hanging above
the mantelpiece, he almost recoiled.
It represented a gentleman of about twenty-five, clad in
an elegant costume, covered with embroidery. The white
hand, half covered with lace, was thrust into the scarlet
waistcoat, and the figure was erect and proud. The strange
circumstance, however, which impressed the young man so
strongly, was the startling resemblance which the portrait—
for such it plainly was—bore to himself. It was not so
much a resemblance, as a perfect copy of his own features.
No trait was different, no detail wanting. The clear eyes,
large, frank, filled with smiling pride; the clearly defined
lips, expressing equal resolution and good humor; the
raised head, the smooth forehead, the brown curling hair,
all was identical with the traits of the real man. Had the
picture descended from the canvas into the apartment, and
any one been asked which was Falconbridge, which the
other, he would have found it impossible to decide.
The young man's astonishment was so great that he remained
for a long time gazing with deep wonder, and in
silence upon the picture. Then taking the candle from the
table he held it above his head, so that the light fell in a
clear stream upon the portrait, and muttered:
“Why, that's no picture! 'Tis my other self!”
He sat down again, but could not remove his eyes from
the strange portrait. Could it possibly have hung there,
when he occupied the room before, without attracting his
attention? He could not believe it. Why, then, had it
been hung up since? Had Lord Fairfax placed it there?
Was it intended to attract his notice? Whose could it be?
what original sat for it? It was plainly no recent picture;
whence did it come, and why was it here in his chamber,
with its eyes fixed on him with that motionless stare?
The young man's mind was filled with conflicting thoughts.
He could arrive at no conclusion; the strange picture was
as absolute a mystery to him at the end of an hour, as when
his eyes first fell upon it.
It was not until the old clock on the stairway struck
twelve, slowly and solemnly, that Falconbridge, finding the
apartment grow cold, retired to sleep. The strange copy
of himself followed him in his dreams; the eyes shone on
him in slumber, as when awake.
He slept uneasily, and started more than once; but finally
toward daybreak fell into a sweet and soothing slumber,
which was undisturbed by the haunting eyes. From his
murmured words and smiles, it was plain that the young man
was dreaming of his home in the Lowlands. His strange past,
the stranger picture, the life around him, had all disappeared:
he was far away from the valley and the mountains, in his
own land again.
When he woke, and saw the bright sun streaming in, he
smiled and welcomed it. Then a sudden movement proved
that he recalled the night before. He turned his head
quickly.
There was the picture.
