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"
But
what
is
this
?
"
cried
Peter
Hovenden
abruptly
,
taking
up
a
dusty
bell
glass
,
beneath
which
appeared
a
mechanical
something
,
as
delicate
and
minute
as
the
system
of
a
butterfly
’
s
anatomy
.
"
What
have
we
here
?
Owen
!
Owen
!
there
is
witchcraft
in
these
little
chains
,
and
wheels
,
and
paddles
.
See
!
with
one
pinch
of
my
finger
and
thumb
I
am
going
to
deliver
you
from
all
future
peril
.
"
"
For
Heaven
’
s
sake
,
"
screamed
Owen
Warland
,
springing
up
with
wonderful
energy
,
"
as
you
would
not
drive
me
mad
,
do
not
touch
it
!
The
slightest
pressure
of
your
finger
would
ruin
me
forever
.
"
"
Aha
,
young
man
!
And
is
it
so
?
"
said
the
old
watchmaker
,
looking
at
him
with
just
enough
penetration
to
torture
Owen
’
s
soul
with
the
bitterness
of
worldly
criticism
.
"
Well
,
take
your
own
course
;
but
I
warn
you
again
that
in
this
small
piece
of
mechanism
lives
your
evil
spirit
.
Shall
I
exorcise
him
?
"
"
You
are
my
evil
spirit
,
"
answered
Owen
,
much
excited
,
—
"
you
and
the
hard
,
coarse
world
!
The
leaden
thoughts
and
the
despondency
that
you
fling
upon
me
are
my
clogs
,
else
I
should
long
ago
have
achieved
the
task
that
I
was
created
for
.
"
Peter
Hovenden
shook
his
head
,
with
the
mixture
of
contempt
and
indignation
which
mankind
,
of
whom
he
was
partly
a
representative
,
deem
themselves
entitled
to
feel
towards
all
simpletons
who
seek
other
prizes
than
the
dusty
one
along
the
highway
.
He
then
took
his
leave
,
with
an
uplifted
finger
and
a
sneer
upon
his
face
that
haunted
the
artist
’
s
dreams
for
many
a
night
afterwards
.
At
the
time
of
his
old
master
’
s
visit
,
Owen
was
probably
on
the
point
of
taking
up
the
relinquished
task
;
but
,
by
this
sinister
event
,
he
was
thrown
back
into
the
state
whence
he
had
been
slowly
emerging
.
But
the
innate
tendency
of
his
soul
had
only
been
accumulating
fresh
vigor
during
its
apparent
sluggishness
.
As
the
summer
advanced
he
almost
totally
relinquished
his
business
,
and
permitted
Father
Time
,
so
far
as
the
old
gentleman
was
represented
by
the
clocks
and
watches
under
his
control
,
to
stray
at
random
through
human
life
,
making
infinite
confusion
among
the
train
of
bewildered
hours
.
He
wasted
the
sunshine
,
as
people
said
,
in
wandering
through
the
woods
and
fields
and
along
the
banks
of
streams
.
There
,
like
a
child
,
he
found
amusement
in
chasing
butterflies
or
watching
the
motions
of
water
insects
.
There
was
something
truly
mysterious
in
the
intentness
with
which
he
contemplated
these
living
playthings
as
they
sported
on
the
breeze
or
examined
the
structure
of
an
imperial
insect
whom
he
had
imprisoned
.
The
chase
of
butterflies
was
an
apt
emblem
of
the
ideal
pursuit
in
which
he
had
spent
so
many
golden
hours
;
but
would
the
beautiful
idea
ever
be
yielded
to
his
hand
like
the
butterfly
that
symbolized
it
?
Sweet
,
doubtless
,
were
these
days
,
and
congenial
to
the
artist
’
s
soul
.
They
were
full
of
bright
conceptions
,
which
gleamed
through
his
intellectual
world
as
the
butterflies
gleamed
through
the
outward
atmosphere
,
and
were
real
to
him
,
for
the
instant
,
without
the
toil
,
and
perplexity
,
and
many
disappointments
of
attempting
to
make
them
visible
to
the
sensual
eye
.
Alas
that
the
artist
,
whether
in
poetry
,
or
whatever
other
material
,
may
not
content
himself
with
the
inward
enjoyment
of
the
beautiful
,
but
must
chase
the
flitting
mystery
beyond
the
verge
of
his
ethereal
domain
,
and
crush
its
frail
being
in
seizing
it
with
a
material
grasp
.
Owen
Warland
felt
the
impulse
to
give
external
reality
to
his
ideas
as
irresistibly
as
any
of
the
poets
or
painters
who
have
arrayed
the
world
in
a
dimmer
and
fainter
beauty
,
imperfectly
copied
from
the
richness
of
their
visions
.
The
night
was
now
his
time
for
the
slow
progress
of
re
-
creating
the
one
idea
to
which
all
his
intellectual
activity
referred
itself
.
Always
at
the
approach
of
dusk
he
stole
into
the
town
,
locked
himself
within
his
shop
,
and
wrought
with
patient
delicacy
of
touch
for
many
hours
.
Sometimes
he
was
startled
by
the
rap
of
the
watchman
,
who
,
when
all
the
world
should
be
asleep
,
had
caught
the
gleam
of
lamplight
through
the
crevices
of
Owen
Warland
’
s
shutters
.
Daylight
,
to
the
morbid
sensibility
of
his
mind
,
seemed
to
have
an
intrusiveness
that
interfered
with
his
pursuits
.
On
cloudy
and
inclement
days
,
therefore
,
he
sat
with
his
head
upon
his
hands
,
muffling
,
as
it
were
,
his
sensitive
brain
in
a
mist
of
indefinite
musings
,
for
it
was
a
relief
to
escape
from
the
sharp
distinctness
with
which
he
was
compelled
to
shape
out
his
thoughts
during
his
nightly
toil
.
