University of Virginia Library

11. XI.
WORK.

SIR ROHAN, recalling the occurrences concerning
which Redruth had been cajoled into imparting
all he knew, could not discover that that
had been much, or that Arundel could in any way
use it to his disadvantage. He had himself
learned one new fact, — that of the message; but
the old woman referred to could have spoken
only on surmise, he reflected, if there were any
such person at all, which he doubted; and considering
the affair of no further importance he
dropped it, and once more recommenced work.

There had grown to be something painful about
this picture now, as though it were a thing long
held in suspense and reproaching him. He had
neglected it lately, and had only with difficulty
prevented Miriam from raising its veil, for by
some instinct he could not suffer her to look upon

it; and he had found that the spirit that fed his
pencil wavered, as if invariably subject to some
antagonistic attraction. Now again constantly as
ever he employed himself, the lark not earlier,
the glowworm scarcely later. The last brief weeks
had infused a healthier sense, and he hoped to
realize it in his performance.

Other weeks sped by, and a few more would
complete it. What should he do then, he one day
thought; but resolved to let that time decide for
itself. The memory of Miriam he tried to banish;
but as well hold the wind from blowing. She
asserted herself as firmly in his mind as the Ghost
of yore; yet he clung to his purpose resolutely,
nevertheless.

Working, as before, when the light grew dim,
again he saw fine points of white lustre pass from
his brush and diffuse themselves beneath it. In
the mornings, frequently, something like a mist
seemed to cover the surface, which clearing away
at his approach, left a darker atmosphere beneath,
emitting faint coruscations till sucked up by the
canvas. And as he drew nearer conclusion, every
night, he thought, tenuious balls of fire shot from
the spot on the lawn where he had seen Miriam

crowned with azalias, into his painting. Far from
ascribing these things to his Ghost, as once he
would have done, he believed them to be owing to
the electric and miasmatic agencies of the place,
and planned a new home for the future, in his
fancy, should she leave him longer in this apparent
freedom.

Now he ventured to add some last tint to the
eyes; what wonder if Miriam's had escaped from
his heart to the work, brighter and larger than the
truth, and gathering life, as it were, at every trace
of his pencil? The air rustled about him there
before his easel with low sibilations, even the darkness,
as he lay in the room with it, put out an
arm toward it, and his idle pencil glowed like the
finger that wrote mene, mene, on the wall. A slow
infiltration of some unknown chemistry seemed in
process, — a dangerous alchemy transmuting all
he did with its own gloss, and holding his latest
stroke in flux, till at turn of tide a hand — how
dim and weak, like the ghost of a ghost — took
shape, and flitted with mysterious falterings round
pencil, palette, and picture. It was his Ghost, he
knew, essaying to come back and add her few
dreadful touches; but what power she had met

superior to diminish and dissipate her influence,
he could not imagine, nor why that which had so
often mastered him should now, at his recognition,
retreat round the easel and vanish into a
hostile gloom.

But at length there came a morning at the
close of summer, when he believed nothing was
left to do, and some such rejoicing exclamation
may have passed his lips. For simultaneously,
all the air of the room seemed seized by a
strong throe, swelling, through sharp and tremulous
palpitations, as if bursting with unseen fulness,
till it shivered in a quick rebound, and a
long-drawn sigh of exquisite relief died away into
silence. It was finished.

Sir Rohan swept aside his implements, and
determined not to see it again immediately, that
coming the next time with an eye grown somewhat
unfamiliar, any remaining defect might strike
him more obviously; and although a feeble affinity
still drew him back, he resisted, and left
the work alone.

In the drawing-room Sir Rohan found everything
nearly as it had been left, for all the servants
had not yet been dismissed, and Nell and

Nan, Mrs. Redruth's maids, contented themselves
by keeping the rooms in order, without interfering
with their arrangements. Here was the book as
St. Denys had laid it down, there the little lace-wrought
handkerchief that Miriam's careless wont
had left in a crumpled heap on the clavichord,
and still withering in their vase from which all
the water had long evaporated, were the stems of
those flowers she had gathered on the morning of
her departure. But the charm that had animated
the whole place was gone, — all things were
crammed with life only because of Miriam. The
first respite he had enjoyed from the misery of
nearly twenty years she, he fancied, had produced;
and questioning how those few weeks
should be capable of such effects, he saw them as
the point throwing all his past life into perspective.
The cloud no longer overshadowed him; —
he had passed out from it, he believed, and Miriam,
in her youth and beauty, was the first to
meet him. Should he therefore sacrifice her?
But if he suffered pain then, was it happiness that
this loneliness gave him? Once, he knew, he
could have imagined no greater height of bliss
than to be free of the Ghost. Less agonizing than
the Ghost, but hardly less bitter, he felt this renunciation
of love to be; and he longed to see
her again, as the watcher longs for morning. He
never asked if he were pampering a fond vanity,
for it seemed as natural that Miriam should love
him, once known, as that she should command
the love of all others. But he repressed the
aching at his heart, and dangerously resolved
again to cherish the thought of her in distance,
to let her memory sweeten long wakeful
nights and lighten dim days, — to worship her, in
short, without a word, in a real self-abnegation,
free from all hope of reward. Was it not more
blessedness to love than to be loved? Surely love,
so used, crowned and glorified itself. But it was
in his fancy, — not in himself. Perchance, had he
kept his vow, the Ghost had kept her truce. Ebn
Thaher reasoned, says the old Arabian tale, but
Aboulhassan loved.

He had received a letter from St. Denys announcing
their safe arrival, which he always carried
about him, for a postscript had been added
over Miriam's scrawling signature. Which document
we give below, having taken the liberty to
spice it with punctuation and capitals, the thing

being none the less hearty because she had
omitted that ceremony.

“I was so glad to be at home again,” — it ran,
— “that I never thought how sorry I should be,
directly, to have left you. But we miss you so
very much, Sir Rohan, that you must come
immediately, and not misuse us.”

This he had not answered, yet something of her
later presence seemed haunting it, and as he paced
the room he laid it for an instant by the handkerchief.

A little urchin — whom Miriam, with kisses
and sugar-plums, had frequently seduced from one
of the cottages, with whom he had seen her frolicking
in the grass, and whom, bending towards
him with the gentlest caress and merriest smile,
he had seen her leading over the lawn — now
came with abundant daisies clutched in both
hands, as doubtless he had come before, and
flattening his small face against the window,
looked in with wistful eyes for Miriam. Sir Rohan
knew what he wanted; he wanted it too; and
his impulse was to beckon him; but he could not
remember the time when he had spoken to a child,
and while he hesitated, the visitor, frightened at

his stern, pale look, retreated. It was odd that
such a trifle should strengthen Sir Rohan's resolution.

But now that the old occupation was gone, the
dreary man felt the necessity of fastening his
attention elsewhere, and for once, being in the
mood, sought for some good to be done to others.
There was sufficient awaiting, without leaving his
own land. He would regulate and repair his
house and its surroundings; he would improve the
condition of his tenantry, of whom, questionless,
many were suffering; he would place education
within the reach of those who desired it; he would
inspire the desire. It was not too late to expiate
his youth. He would commence at once; and
with a new energy he stepped into the hall, scenting
the powerful fragrance drafting through the
open doors, from the greenhouse. Well, they
were pretty dreams!

But at the foot of the staircase a change overcame
him, the color fell from his face again. An
instant ago so elastic, now, with drooping head and
pensive air, he could scarcely move. Some powerful
attraction seemed drawing him above; but if he
yielded to this, would not the more powerful
attraction of Miriam conquer again?

Nevertheless, whatever force it was, battling it
at every step, or wearily acquiescing, he submitted,
and slowly ascended to the door of his painting-room.
Once there, the door seemed to burst open
for his entrance, and the alluring power to bring
him yet more swiftly till he stood before his picture.
Let us also look at the thing.

It is not a small canvas, being about four feet in
height, although rather longer than broad, and is
set in a quaint frame of black, carved wood, with
an inner reglet gilt to relieve the want of that
color in the painting. It is full of purple, misty
shades, with one or two flashes of light, yet at first
sight devoid of interest, for the only object seems
to be a tiny balance held by invisible fingers. One
scale descends, the other ascends; in either lies a
violet. These violets are exquisitely finished, the
hue soft and rich, while the tissue of the petals is
of ethereal delicacy. They are relieved by a
doubtful reflex of crimson drapery. In the heart
of the upper one rests a dew-drop, a large liquid
diamond that has caught the very spirit of concentrated
lustre. It is singular to observe that the
only light in the picture radiates from this dew-drop
as from a sun. But its jewel has not enhanced

the beauty of the flower; on the contrary,
it is wilted, and the fierce rays have creased the
frail film, and exhaled the sweet juices. No dew-drop
seals the heavier violet. It lies alone, as if
just plucked from the woods, nursed by sunshine,
fashioned by south winds, yet fed, cherished, and
utterly impregnated with the life and beauty of
morning dew. Its soft blue bloom is unimpaired,
its fresh grace seems imperishable, one fancies that
it fills the room and picture with a subtile fragrance;
a long-stemmed leaf of tenderest green,
pulled from the parent root, lies beside it. Your
eye lingers on the ungemmed violet, for the confused
tinge of the remainder of the canvas does
not entice, and you wonder why it was not framed
in six inches.

But gazing so long, something seems to unfold,
some mist to lighten; you are aware of the suggestion
of a finger on which the balance rests, and
tracing it up, a round arm, that grows whiter as
you pierce the smoky wrapping, till it melts into
a shoulder of the perfect mellow mould of a
ripened pear, a curve of the neck, a face, while long
hair like a cloud of refined shadow shrouds the
rest, and is hardly distinct from the dark purple
background.

Delighted at having discovered a face, and
almost imagining yourself the first who has done
so, you stay like one entranced till the beauty
you are sure must be there resolves before you.

Behind the mist, the gauzy vapor, the oval
brightens with a faint color in the cheek, you even
see the dimple in the chin. Each feature gains
clearness, and the eyes illumined by the dew-drop
open on your sight.

You feel sure that the room must be swarming
with other intelligences waiting upon those eyes.
Words fail to express their charm. They are full
of a dreamy languor, they are large, serene, and
obscure, they are like a flame or sunshine or gold
seen through wine or any brown transparency,
they are a little darker than topaz, they imbibe
rather than emit a sparkle, they seem to have
filled themselves with the whole glory of a Roman
summer.

You are still satisfied, but in a measure trained,
and glancing down an instant, it appears that the
upper scale with its violet and dew-drop forms
only a superb ring for some one yet undetected;
searching for whom, you detain in the lower
corner a face turned upward, fainter far than the

other, white, earnest, the eyes almost quivering
with eagerness, the brow beaded, the darkness
receding from it in folds as if brushed aside by
keen motion, the whole suffused with a wild radiance.
It might be Lucifer. The light is so managed
that this is the only object casting a distinct
shadow. His extended hand is a flash.

There should be something counter to this; and
erelong, higher up than, but not far distant from
the first face, another issues into life. It is not
remarkable except for its placidity. It looks down
from its cloud as if full of heavenly content; you
perceive the shades are lighter around it, and at
once notice its air of vigilance and certainty. All
the calm influence of the painting spreads from
that. It might be some seraph whose crown is
won.

The composition of the three is good, having the
effect of a broad sunbeam falling slantwise; and
the coloring comprises a rich succession and mingling
of tones and semitones, although on a scale
of strict selection.

It is curious that while the first form is so
vague and dim, she seems nevertheless the only
real one, and these two remaining faces but the

people of her reverie: one, perhaps the image of
life, temptation overcome; the other, the ardent
dream of passion. You do not doubt into which
arms she will fall.

You are apprised also of something foreign in
this form, something, so to say, supernatural.
That absorbed smile seems to part and float across
the face, these colors to change with a quick
pulsation; you fancy, if released from the frame
and scales, it would soar up and away; you feel
uncomfortably, as if the eyes saw you. You believe
the artist to have worked beyond his will,
and to have wrought that of which he was not
conscious, a power above his control inspiring his
pencil. It is a wonderful picture, and opulent in
tints that would cool an August noon. But having
glanced away, as you return it is once more
enveloped in its smoky drapery, and only by a
similar process would you again discover the same
objects.

This is what you and I see, — little enough for
a man to waste so much life on; but what did Sir
Rohan see? A mistier shade, a whiter film, something
not of his creation. Vengeful arrows shot
from the proud pathos of those eyes; through the

haze he had wrought over them, the lips quivered
at his gaze with flecks of blue flickering flame;
though fixed, it hovered; though inanimate, it
lived.

“Had he been mad, so to deceive himself?
Could he ever escape it? Here too! Here too!”

But Sir Rohan had no time to utter such
words, or frame so distinctly their thought. The
sense alone smote him; he was wrapped again in
the black and poisonous cloud. So shortly since
so buoyant, so hopeful, — what had ruined him
now?

He stood tensely, half turned away, but his eyes
by irresistible attraction drawn toward and returning
that gaze, livid and agonized.

Great God! the Ghost was in the picture.