A brilliant company—the very newspapers would say so if they had note of
it; distinguished people—except here and there a few who are only wives
or sisters of somebody; the ladies and gentlemen present, individual by
individual, are somebodies themselves. For a very pretty collection of
Lions, as one could wish to see, are drawn together into Mr Editor
Lithgow’s drawing-room, to do honour to his wedding-day.
And you may wonder at first to hear such a moderate amount of roaring;
Lions of the present day are not given to grandiloquence. If the truth
must be told, the talk sounds somewhat professional, not unlike the
regimental talk of soldier officers, and the ladies pertaining to the
same. True, that a picturesque American, bolder than her compeers on
this side the Atlantic, _poses_ in one corner, and by-and-by makes a
tableau, lying down in wild devotion at the feet of two respectable and
somewhat scared good people—literary ladies of a modest standing, who
have done just work enough to make their names known, but are by no
means prepared for such homage as this. And for the rest of the company,
it must be said that they sit or stand, lean back or lean forward, as
propriety or common custom enjoin;—that there is a great talk of babies
in that other corner, where the mistress of the house is surrounded by a
band of matron friends;—and that there is in reality very little out of
the common in this company, if it were not for the said professional
talk.
The young mistress of the house! She talks pretty nearly as much now as
other people talk—quite as much, indeed, when her heart is opened with
that all-interesting subject, babies—or when her tongue has leisure to
talk of the marvellous feats of certain babies of her own. July Home has
been a married wife five years.
There is nothing very costly or rare in this drawing-room; but it is
well-sized and well-furnished, notwithstanding, and a pretty apartment.
Lithgow himself, not a very stately host, attends to his guests with an
unassuming kindliness which charms these somewhat sophisticated people,
in spite of themselves; and Lithgow is full of the talk of the
profession, and speaks great names with the confidence of friendship. In
these five years, mother though she be, and mistress of a London
household, all you can say of July is, that she has grown a pretty
girl—a little taller, a little more mature in action—but a girl, just as
she was when we saw her last.
Being addressed, but of his own will scarcely speaking to any one, there
is a remarkable-looking person among Mr Lithgow’s guests. Looking up to
his great height, you can just see some threads of white among his hair,
though his age does not justify this, for he is a young man still; and a
settled cloud upon his brow gives darkness to his face. It is not
grief—it is not care; a gloomy self-absorbed pride is much more like
what it is.
“That is Mrs Lithgow’s brother,” says another guest, in answer to the
“who’s that” of an unaccustomed visitor. Mrs Lithgow’s brother! Is this
all the distinction that remains to the lofty Randall Home?
“And a literary man, like all the rest of us,” continues,
condescendingly, this gentleman, who is a critic, and contemptuous in
right of his craft. “He made a great success with his first publication
six or seven years ago. I saw it on that table in the corner, covered
with a pile of prints and drawings. They say Home cannot bear to see it
now. Well; he lingered a long time polishing, and elaborating, and
retouching his second book, expecting, no doubt, a universal
acclamation. Poor fellow! the public never so much as looked at it—it
was a dead failure.”
“Was it not equal to the first?” inquired breathlessly the original
speaker, who in his heart was a warm adherent of Randall, though
personally unknown to him, and who was a great deal better acquainted
with the work in question than his informant.
“There was merit in the book,” said the critic, poising a pretty
paper-knife carelessly on his forefinger—“merit, such as it was; and
Lithgow, here, gave him an article, and tried hard to get up a feeling;
but he’s a supercilious fellow, sir—proud as Lucifer; he is constantly
running against somebody, and we put him down.”
The critic turned to speak to another critic on his other hand; the
interrogator stood aside. Solitary in the midst of this animated
company—dark, where all was glowing with a modest brilliancy—it was not
wonderful that this good man should inquire of himself whether there was
nought of the evil thing called affectation in the gloom and pride of
Randall Home. One thing at least it was not difficult to see—that
Randall knew people were looking at him—wondering about him—and that
more than one lady of sentiment and enthusiasm had marvelled already,
with wistful melancholy, whether any one knew what the grief was which
had blighted the young author’s life.
The young author’s life was not blighted. On him, like a nightmare, sat
a subtle spirit, self-questioning, self-criticising. He was
disappointed;—a bitter stream had come into his way, and by its side he
walked, his eyes bent downward on it, pondering the evils of his fate,
trying with a cold philosophy to believe them no evils, assuming to
despise them, yet resenting them with bitterness in his own secret
heart.
“Randall, look at this; it minds me of home,” said his sister in his
ear. He took mechanically what she put into his hand—carelessly: not the
slightest interest in _his_ face for poor July’s enthusiasm—as like as
not he would smile and put it down with a careless glance. Things that
other people look on with interest were matters of chilled and
disappointed indifference to Randall Home.
Yet he looks at this child’s face that has been brought before him;
insensibly a smile breaks upon his lips in answer to this sweet child’s
smile. He, who is a critic, knows it is no _chef d’œuvre_, and has
little claim to be looked upon as high art; but for once Randall thinks
nothing of the execution—as on a real countenance he gazes upon this.
These sweet little features seem to move before him with the throng of
gracious childlike thoughts that hover over the unclouded brow—childlike
thoughts—thoughts of the great eternal simplicities which come nearest
to angels and to children. This man, through his intricacies and glooms,
catches for an instant a real glimpse of what that atmosphere must be
through which simple hearts look up into the undoubted heavens; for
scarcely so much as a summer cloud can float between this child and the
sky.
Come this way, Randall. Here is a little room, vacant, half-lighted,
where lie other things akin to this. Take them up after your careless
fashion. What message can they have to you? Be ready, if you can, to put
them aside with a word of bitter criticism—only leave out this child’s
portrait. Say with your lips it is good and you like it; feel in your
heart as if it spoke to you long, loving, simple speeches; and when you
turn from it—hush! it is irreverent—do not try with either sarcasm or
jest to cheat this sudden desolateness which you feel at your heart.
A cloudy face—is this no portrait? The wind is tossing back wildly the
curls from its white high brow, and out of a heavy thunder-cloud it
looks down darkly, doubtfully, with a look which you cannot fathom.
Uneasily the spectator lays it aside to lift another—another and
another; they are very varied, but his keen eye perceives in a moment
that every face among them which is a man’s bears the same features.
Other heads of children unknown to Randall—pictures of peasant women,
real and individual, diversify the little collection; but where the
artist has made a man’s face, everywhere a subtle visionary resemblance
runs through each and all. Through altered features the same
expression—through changed moods and tempers the same sole face. The
room swims about him as he looks—is it a dream or a vision—what does it
mean?
The long white curtains faintly stir in the autumn night-wind which
steals in through the open window; the shaded lamp upon the table throws
down a little circle of light—a larger circle of shadow—upon these
pictures, and faintly shines in the mirror above the vacant hearth. He
has sunk on one knee to look at them again. What memory is it that has
kept this face, what sad recollection has preserved its looks and
changes so faithfully and so long? No ideal, noble, and glorious, such
as a heart might make for itself—no human idol either, arrayed in the
purple and gold of loving homage—and the heart of Randall, startled and
dismayed, hides its face, and beholds itself for the first time truly.
He knows that none of these is meant for him—feels with certain
confidence that reproach upon him is the last thing intended by this
often portraiture; yet stands aside, and marvels, with a pang—a great
throb of anguish and hope—to see himself, changed in habit and in
aspect, with years added and with years taken away; but he feels in
every one that the face is his own.
Love that thinks you loftiest, noblest—love that worships in you its
type of grace and high perfection, its embodiment of dreams and
longings—rejoice in it, oh youth! But if you ever come to know a love
that is disenchanted—a love that with its clear and anxious sight has
found you out and read your heart—knowing not the highest part alone,
but, in so far as human creature can, _all_ that is written there—yet
still is love; if you rejoice no longer, pause at least, and tremble.
Light is the blind love of the old poets—frail, and in constant peril.
Heaven help those to whom is given the love that sees as nothing else
can see—It struck to the heart of Randall Home.
Through secrets of his being, which himself had never guessed, this
lightened eye had pierced like a sunbeam. Unwitting of its insight,
nought could it say in words of its discovery, but unconsciously they
came to light under the artist-hand. Menie Laurie—Menie Laurie!—little
you wist when your pencil touched so dreamily these faces, which were
but so many shadows of one face in your heart—little you wist how
strange a revelation they would carry to another soul.
“Something has happened to Randall—he will not hear me,” said July to
her husband when the guests went away. “He makes me no answer—he never
hears me speak, but stands yonder steadfast at the mirror, looking in
his own face.”