Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming interested,would return day after day, and study these painted faces like thepages of a mystic volume. Walter Ludlow's portrait attracted theirearliest notice. In the absence of himself and his bride, theysometimes disputed as to the expression which the painter had intendedto throw upon the features; all agreeing that there was a look ofearnest import, though no two explained it alike. There was lessdiversity of opinion in regard to Elinor's picture. They differed,indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of thegloom that dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom, andalien from the natural temperament of their youthful friend. A certainfanciful person announced, as the result of much scrutiny, that boththese pictures were parts of one design, and that the melancholystrength of feeling, in Elinor's countenance, bore reference to themore vivid emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild passion, in thatof Walter. Though unskilled in the art, he even began a sketch, inwhich the action of the two figures was to correspond with theirmutual expression.
It was whispered among friends that, day by day, Elinor's facewas assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness, which threatened soon torender her too true a counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter,on the other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which thepainter had given him on the canvas, became reserved and downcast,with no outward flashes of emotion, however it might be smoulderingwithin. In course of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purplesilk, wrought with flowers and fringed with heavy golden tassels,before the pictures, under pretence that the dust would tarnishtheir hues, or the light dim them. It was enough. Her visitors felt,that the massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn, nor theportraits mentioned in her presence.
Time wore on; and the painter came again. He had been far enough tothe north to see the silver cascade of the Crystal Hills, and tolook over the vast round of cloud and forest from the summit of NewEngland's loftiest mountain. But he did not profane that scene bythe mockery of his art. He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom ofLake George, making his soul the mirror of its loveliness andgrandeur, till not a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than hisrecollection. He had gone with the Indian hunters to Niagara, andthere, again, had flung his hopeless pencil down the precipice,feeling that he could as soon paint the roar, as aught else thatgoes to make up the wondrous cataract. In truth, it was seldom hisimpulse to copy natural scenery, except as a framework for thedelineations of the human form and face, instinct with thought,passion, or suffering. With store of such his adventurous ramble hadenriched him: the stern dignity of Indian chiefs; the dusky lovelinessof Indian girls; the domestic life of wigwams; the stealthy march; thebattle beneath gloomy pine-trees; the frontier fortress with itsgarrison; the anomaly of the old French partisan, bred in courts,but grown gray in shaggy deserts; such were the scenes and portraitsthat he had sketched. The glow of perilous moments; flashes of wildfeeling; struggles of fierce power- love, hate, grief, frenzy; in aword, all the worn-out heart of the old earth had been revealed to himunder a new form. His portfolio was filled with graphicillustrations of the volume of his memory, which genius wouldtransmute into its own substance, and imbue with immortality. Hefelt that the deep wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far,was found.
But amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the forest or itsoverwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two phantoms, thecompanions of his way. Like all other men around whom an engrossingpurpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of human kind.
He had no aim- no pleasure- no sympathies- but what were ultimatelyconnected with his art. Though gentle in manner and upright inintent and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his heart wascold; no living creature could be brought near enough to keep himwarm. For these two beings, however, he had felt, in its greatestintensity, the sort of interest which always allied him to thesubjects of his pencil. He had pried into their souls with his keenestinsight, and pictured the result upon their features with his utmostskill, so as barely to fall short of that standard which no geniusever reached, his own severe conception. He had caught from theduskiness of the future- at least, so he fancied- a fearful secret,and had obscurely revealed it on the portraits. So much of himself- ofhis imagination and all other powers- had been lavished on the studyof Walter and Elinor, that he almost regarded them as creations of hisown, like the thousands with which he had peopled the realms ofPicture. Therefore did they flit through the twilight of the woods,hover on the mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of thelake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. They haunted his pictorialfancy, not as mockeries of life, nor pale goblins of the dead, butin the guise of portraits, each with the unalterable expressionwhich his magic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. He couldnot recross the Atlantic till he had again beheld the originals ofthose airy pictures.
