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And
now
,
again
,
he
resumed
his
wanderings
in
the
woods
and
fields
.
It
might
be
fancied
that
the
bright
butterfly
,
which
had
come
so
spirit
-
like
into
the
window
as
Owen
sat
with
the
rude
revellers
,
was
indeed
a
spirit
commissioned
to
recall
him
to
the
pure
,
ideal
life
that
had
so
etheralized
him
among
men
.
It
might
be
fancied
that
he
went
forth
to
seek
this
spirit
in
its
sunny
haunts
;
for
still
,
as
in
the
summer
time
gone
by
,
he
was
seen
to
steal
gently
up
wherever
a
butterfly
had
alighted
,
and
lose
himself
in
contemplation
of
it
.
When
it
took
flight
his
eyes
followed
the
winged
vision
,
as
if
its
airy
track
would
show
the
path
to
heaven
.
But
what
could
be
the
purpose
of
the
unseasonable
toil
,
which
was
again
resumed
,
as
the
watchman
knew
by
the
lines
of
lamplight
through
the
crevices
of
Owen
Warland
’
s
shutters
?
The
towns
-
people
had
one
comprehensive
explanation
of
all
these
singularities
.
Owen
Warland
had
gone
mad
!
How
universally
efficacious
—
how
satisfactory
,
too
,
and
soothing
to
the
injured
sensibility
of
narrowness
and
dulness
—
is
this
easy
method
of
accounting
for
whatever
lies
beyond
the
world
’
s
most
ordinary
scope
!
From
St
.
Paul
’
s
days
down
to
our
poor
little
Artist
of
the
Beautiful
,
the
same
talisman
had
been
applied
to
the
elucidation
of
all
mysteries
in
the
words
or
deeds
of
men
who
spoke
or
acted
too
wisely
or
too
well
.
In
Owen
Warland
’
s
case
the
judgment
of
his
towns
-
people
may
have
been
correct
.
Perhaps
he
was
mad
.
The
lack
of
sympathy
—
that
contrast
between
himself
and
his
neighbors
which
took
away
the
restraint
of
example
—
was
enough
to
make
him
so
.
Or
possibly
he
had
caught
just
so
much
of
ethereal
radiance
as
served
to
bewilder
him
,
in
an
earthly
sense
,
by
its
intermixture
with
the
common
daylight
.
One
evening
,
when
the
artist
had
returned
from
a
customary
ramble
and
had
just
thrown
the
lustre
of
his
lamp
on
the
delicate
piece
of
work
so
often
interrupted
,
but
still
taken
up
again
,
as
if
his
fate
were
embodied
in
its
mechanism
,
he
was
surprised
by
the
entrance
of
old
Peter
Hovenden
.
Owen
never
met
this
man
without
a
shrinking
of
the
heart
.
Of
all
the
world
he
was
most
terrible
,
by
reason
of
a
keen
understanding
which
saw
so
distinctly
what
it
did
see
,
and
disbelieved
so
uncompromisingly
in
what
it
could
not
see
.
On
this
occasion
the
old
watchmaker
had
merely
a
gracious
word
or
two
to
say
.
"
Owen
,
my
lad
,
"
said
he
,
"
we
must
see
you
at
my
house
to
-
morrow
night
.
"
The
artist
began
to
mutter
some
excuse
.
"
Oh
,
but
it
must
be
so
,
"
quoth
Peter
Hovenden
,
"
for
the
sake
of
the
days
when
you
were
one
of
the
household
.
What
,
my
boy
!
don
’
t
you
know
that
my
daughter
Annie
is
engaged
to
Robert
Danforth
?
We
are
making
an
entertainment
,
in
our
humble
way
,
to
celebrate
the
event
.
"
That
little
monosyllable
was
all
he
uttered
;
its
tone
seemed
cold
and
unconcerned
to
an
ear
like
Peter
Hovenden
’
s
;
and
yet
there
was
in
it
the
stifled
outcry
of
the
poor
artist
’
s
heart
,
which
he
compressed
within
him
like
a
man
holding
down
an
evil
spirit
.
One
slight
outbreak
,
however
,
imperceptible
to
the
old
watchmaker
,
he
allowed
himself
.
Raising
the
instrument
with
which
he
was
about
to
begin
his
work
,
he
let
it
fall
upon
the
little
system
of
machinery
that
had
,
anew
,
cost
him
months
of
thought
and
toil
.
It
was
shattered
by
the
stroke
!
Owen
Warland
’
s
story
would
have
been
no
tolerable
representation
of
the
troubled
life
of
those
who
strive
to
create
the
beautiful
,
if
,
amid
all
other
thwarting
influences
,
love
had
not
interposed
to
steal
the
cunning
from
his
hand
.
Outwardly
he
had
been
no
ardent
or
enterprising
lover
;
the
career
of
his
passion
had
confined
its
tumults
and
vicissitudes
so
entirely
within
the
artist
’
s
imagination
that
Annie
herself
had
scarcely
more
than
a
woman
’
s
intuitive
perception
of
it
;
but
,
in
Owen
’
s
view
,
it
covered
the
whole
field
of
his
life
.
Forgetful
of
the
time
when
she
had
shown
herself
incapable
of
any
deep
response
,
he
had
persisted
in
connecting
all
his
dreams
of
artistical
success
with
Annie
’
s
image
;
she
was
the
visible
shape
in
which
the
spiritual
power
that
he
worshipped
,
and
on
whose
altar
he
hoped
to
lay
a
not
unworthy
offering
,
was
made
manifest
to
him
.
Of
course
he
had
deceived
himself
;
there
were
no
such
attributes
in
Annie
Hovenden
as
his
imagination
had
endowed
her
with
.
She
,
in
the
aspect
which
she
wore
to
his
inward
vision
,
was
as
much
a
creature
of
his
own
as
the
mysterious
piece
of
mechanism
would
be
were
it
ever
realized
.
Had
he
become
convinced
of
his
mistake
through
the
medium
of
successful
love
,
—
had
he
won
Annie
to
his
bosom
,
and
there
beheld
her
fade
from
angel
into
ordinary
woman
,
—
the
disappointment
might
have
driven
him
back
,
with
concentrated
energy
,
upon
his
sole
remaining
object
.
On
the
other
hand
,
had
he
found
Annie
what
he
fancied
,
his
lot
would
have
been
so
rich
in
beauty
that
out
of
its
mere
redundancy
he
might
have
wrought
the
beautiful
into
many
a
worthier
type
than
he
had
toiled
for
;
but
the
guise
in
which
his
sorrow
came
to
him
,
the
sense
that
the
angel
of
his
life
had
been
snatched
away
and
given
to
a
rude
man
of
earth
and
iron
,
who
could
neither
need
nor
appreciate
her
ministrations
,
—
this
was
the
very
perversity
of
fate
that
makes
human
existence
appear
too
absurd
and
contradictory
to
be
the
scene
of
one
other
hope
or
one
other
fear
.
There
was
nothing
left
for
Owen
Warland
but
to
sit
down
like
a
man
that
had
been
stunned
.
He
went
through
a
fit
of
illness
.
