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. After his recovery his small and slender frame assumed an
obtuser garniture of flesh than it had ever before worn. His thin cheeks became round; his
delicate little hand, so spiritually fashioned to achieve fairy task-work, grew plumper than
the hand of a thriving infant. His aspect had a childishness such as might have induced a
stranger to pat him on the head--pausing, however, in the act, to wonder what manner of
child was here. It was as if the spirit had gone out of him, leaving the body to flourish in a
sort of vegetable existence. Not that Owen Warland was idiotic. He could talk, and not
irrationally. Somewhat of a babbler, indeed, did people begin to think him; for he was apt to
discourse at wearisome length of marvels of mechanism that he had read about in books,
but which he had learned to consider as absolutely fabulous. Among them he enumerated
the Man of Brass, constructed by Albertus Magnus, and the Brazen Head of Friar Bacon;
and, coming down to later times, the automata of a little coach and horses, which it was
pretended had been manufactured for the Dauphin of France; together with an insect that
buzzed about the ear like a living fly, and yet was but a contrivance of minute steel springs.
There was a story, too, of a duck that waddled, and quacked, and ate; though, had any
honest citizen purchased it for dinner, he would have found himself cheated with the mere