 | CHAPTER III. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
It was not without a slight heightening of color that
Paul met the calm eye of Mary Evenden, that afternoon.
She sat at the parsonage window, as usual, waiting his
coming, and wiling the time with her drawing-book and
pencil, and his first impulse—her hand left so confidingly
in his, while he seated himself at her side—was to avow
that he had something critical to confess, bespeaking, however,
her kind suspension of judgment, till he could modify
her inevitable first impression.
He began with the utterance of her beautiful name—
hesitated—stammered. No! he must turn his thought
over, and present it differently. It was, somehow, difficult
to find words in which what he had to say would seem
worthy to follow after that sainted name—Mary!
As he looked at her face again, it occurred to him that
he was about to confess to at least a curiosity as to
whether there might not be finer clay than she—a thirst
to know whether he had yet seen Nature's best—herself
knew.
“Get bonnet and shawl, and come out for a walk,” he
abruptly proposed, after a moment more of vain entanglement
and hesitation, “my thoughts are of this world, and
you look so superfluously good in this religious little domicil—come!”
But there were drawings to put away, and it would be a
minute or two before she would rejoin him at the garden
gate, and so he had gained a breathing time to put his
confused thoughts into order.
Mary Evenden stood almost in the relation of a sister to
young Fane; for, by her own dying mother she had been
committed to his, in her early childhood—the invalid condition
of her father's health, making it probable at the
time, that she would soon be an orphan. The good
clergyman had lingered on, however, though his complete
absorption in the overburdening cares of his profession
made Mrs. Fane's guardianship over the daughter, for
some years, as complete as if the orphanage had been
entire. The separate roof which each child called a home,
was, indeed, the only reminder that they were not children
of the same mother, their amusements and studies having
been mingled entirely, up to Paul's departure for college;
and the return to intimacy in his vacations, and now that
tie of blood were between them.
It was a peculiar friendship, however. Though the possibility
of love had not given the alarm to either heart, as
yet, and no word or look, such as lovers use, had startled
or embarrassed them, they were conscious of being sacredly
dear to each other—the link, whatever it might be, all
the more pure and precious that it had never been named
nor measured. Paul had a favorite theory of two or more
souls inhabiting one body, and it was mainly fed and
strengthened by the perfectly single-hearted exclusiveness
with which Mary Evenden maintained a recognition only
of his inner nature—a nature which, though he felt conscious
it was his truer and stronger self, was not at all seen
into by many who knew him otherwise well. To her and
to his mother he was veritably one manner of man, and to
his common acquaintances he was just as veritably another;
and the two, separately described, would hardly have been
thought reconcilable. It was Paul's riddle of human nature—not
that he was in any way contradictory or other
than single-minded to himself; but that, with daily conduct
and manners as studiously truthful and natural as he
could jealously and almost resentfully make them, he was
to different eyes still so different.
There was no denying, Paul confessed himself now, however,
strong. He was trying the strength of the temptation
with rather a wilful perversity, when Mary stepped from
the low threshold of the parsonage. Why tell her of all
the motive he might have for an errand to foreign lands?
But another claim for his new problem seemed to present
itself as he looked upon the form that came towards
him.
Paul had often tried in vain to define the artistic charm
which there lay in Mary Evenden's beauty. Its effect fell
upon the eye only in surprises—revealable, apparently, only
to the after look, when common standards had been first
put aside—but of that beauty, it now seemed to him that
he might reasonably wish to know the comparative rarity
and value. The tempter had gone down into the unlighted
corner of his heart for the apology that he needed!
More critically than ever before, he studied the air and
movement of the unconscious girl during that moment of
approach. It was the first trial of the new assay with
which, he had now become aware, Nature's coinage must
be tested. The reading of the clear stamp on the face and
form before him was easy. He knew it better than it could
ever be learned by another eye. But there were standards
of which his imagination was tremblingly foreshadowing
the demands for beauty of noble presence. Was this different
beauty there? The simple and yet faultless pose of
with such tranquil dignity—that unalarmed innocence of
open eye—the mist-like abandonment of motion, yet every
footfall so indefinably modest—the smile that was not reluctant,
but had well nigh been too late for the thought by
not remembering itself as of any value—form and limb so
luxuriantly complete, so venturesomely full, yet over the
fruitlike ripeness of which there was such an overrule of a
consciousness intellectual only—the white dress falling so
gracefully from her tall figure, and her straw hat so primitively
plain, and the massive blonde braid wound round
from either temple with sculpture-like severity of line—no
ornament save the half-blown rose whose stem was slipped
through her girdle—simple Mary Evenden—would she be
thought beautiful in a palace?
By tacit agreement, the topic on which the interest
promised to be unusual was let alone till they should be
off sidewalks; and the conversation (with no knowledge
on Mary's part, of anything that should embarrass it) kept
its accustomed easy flow for some time after reaching the
noble shadows of the Mall. Easily as it flowed, it was
communing of which Paul did not yet know the value.
Her habitual happiness was to mirror his inner nature; and
their intercourse, long and well as they had known each
other, was the exchange of thoughts and sympathies on
ground only where he was earnest and gifted. With his
more recognition and encouragement, her eagerness for
exchange with the pure ore of his mind had wonderfully
aided in melting out and coining it; though, so ready and
instinctive had been this rare and precious reciprocity, that
each seemed to the other to be imparting that which was
easiest and most natural. Nor was Paul aware, either,
that, by the sufficing of Mary Evenden and his mother for
these more sacred sympathies, he was insensibly keeping
his inner nature for their loving and sharing only—the
more volatile and worldly qualities of his character being,
by mere rotation of mood, the change of weapons and
armor, with which he went out for his lighter skirmishings
with the world.
As Paul coaxed up his unwilling confession once more
to the light, he forgot that he had looked at the matter
only from his somewhat culprit point of view. To Mary,
his proposition to go abroad—particularly if he should
withhold from her the new and more worldly motive which
was now superadded to his purposes of Art—would be but
a leaning toward the bent of her own constant counsel.
He had his other advisers, as to a career in life, and they
were mostly kind friends who were prepared to second
their views by holding out to him the handles of opportunity.
For either mercantile or professional success, indeed,
nothing seemed wanting but his acceptance of one or the
tact and ability. To these advisers, of course (as to his
father, whose friends they also were), his devoted application
to so unprofitable a pursuit as the pencil, was wholly
unknown. And such tempters from without were not
likely to be wholly unlistened to! They came with the
sounding trumpets of “Enterprise” and “Ambition,” and
they had pleaders in his energetic health, his strong will,
his pride of manhood—one other pleader, too, in the
promise of an earlier competency to share with one whom
he might love.
But Mary's unworldly eye saw only his genius for Art.
To develop his intense love for the Beautiful, seemed to
her his proper destiny. Better a more slender livelihood,
the daily industry of which should ennoble heart and
mind (thought Mary), than larger wealth, the struggle for
the acquisition of which must demean the intellect, and
leave Nature's best gifts without culture. Art, to her, was
a lofty walk with such spirits as Raphael for guide and
company; and all other successes in life were, to those of
genius, poor and secondary. She had read with Paul, on
these subjects till both their minds were artistic in taste
and enthusiasm. Without his skill of hand; and the fine
intuition of form and color, which constituted his peculiarity
of genius, she had done her best to discipline her
judgment by assiduous practice in drawing, and she was,
encourager of his every effort and victory.
“Well?” said Mary, looking up with an inquiring smile,
after a few minutes of silence, and thus reminding Paul of
the something he had to say.
His magnanimity sprang to the throne with a bound, at
the liberal and confiding nobleness of that look and smile.
How could he conceal from such a soul-mirror, the remotest
impulse of so important a step? He would not!
“Mary,” he said, “I have resolved, at last, to go to
Europe.”
She started, and drew his arm closer to her side.
“But that is not all,” he continued. “I wish to make a
fair confession to you of all the mystery of this new determination—what
awoke it, and what is involved in it.”
He hesitated a moment, and Mary, who had stopped and
resumed her walk, took the opportunity to come in with
what she thought was the encouraging word critically
needed to confirm a great resolution.
“The very sunshine without which your genius must
languish, my dear Paul,” she said, in a low, strong, steady
tone. “I am so glad you give up, at last, that misplaced
Americanism of trying to be an artist here. You need
the air of Italy—the collision with other schools of
artists—”
“But, Mary—”
“No, I will not listen to any qualification of so good a
resolve! Go, my dear friend—go—”
But the last syllable trembled on her lip, and the flecked
light through the overshadowing elms flashed on a sudden
brightness in the large blue eye of which he half caught a
glimpse as she turned away. There was more than mere
expediency to be felt and thought of, in the discussion of
that new resolve!
But a familiar call suddenly startled them.
“My children!” said the loving voice of Mrs. Fane, who,
as they walked slowly along the Mall, had entered from a
side street and overtaken them, “shall I interrupt your
downcast eyes in their study of those broken shadows, if I
take Paul's other arm? I am tired, and quite need its kind
support.”
And, with that chance interruption, Paul's confession
sank back into silence—to be resummoned and honestly
achieved to the satisfaction of his conscience, but not till
days had elapsed, and not till the life-long passion for Art
had again found its supremacy and become the absorbing
and main interest of his plans. Strong and keen motive as
his new pride-thirst of social curiosity still continued to be,
it fell to its secondary and subordinate place; and, when
avowed to Mary, it seemed to her but a side-interest of
travel, incidental to his youth and sex. With her broad
and unselfish appreciation, the new knowledge he thus
to the larger want and more instinctive completeness of
his Nature. Paul had his misgiving as to receiving all of
this generous estimate. But he marked the mental reservation
with a tear of grateful tenderness at his heart, and a
prayer for strength to be even what he was thought to be.
The addition, to their company, of one so intimate with
both, did not change the topic that afternoon. With the
interrupted confession set aside, the project itself of foreign
travel was at once imparted to the loving and beloved
mother. She received it sadly, thoughtfully, but assentingly.
With less youthful elasticity of hope than Mary,
the mournful certainties of separation and dread possibilities
of harm and unforeseen trial in absence, pressed first on
her busy heart and brain.
That was an evening crowded with the undramatic trials
of home differences of opinion, and questions of means and
future resources. With Mr. Fane's unwavering justice and
truth, his severity and practical angularity of judgment had
always been borne with, hitherto, and till this unexpected
proposition, by his son, no wish or decision of the father
had ever needed to be openly opposed. By this calm dissent,
known well to be wholly inflexible, Paul's future separation
of interest and support was to commence with his
departure from the paternal roof. This was expected and
unargued. The respectfully dispassionate expression, by
his departure from the room as he left for his evening walk,
and the mother and son together once more, laid their
plans for the future. She had, happily, a small income of
her own, which, with close management and economy,
might suffice for his mere wants, till he should find resources
in the productions of his genius, and, with this
assured, the new path might at least be entered upon.
It was a late hour when they parted that night, at his
study-door.
And with these moving-springs of our hero's character
and outset placed in the reader's hand, he is ready for the
more active movement of our story.
| CHAPTER III. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold | |