The butterfly now flung itself upon the air, fluttered roundAnnie's head, and soared into a distant region of the parlor, still****** itself perceptible to sight by the starry gleam in which themotion of its wings enveloped it. The infant, on the floor, followedits course with his sagacious little eyes. After flying about theroom, it returned, in a spiral curve, and settled again on Annie'sfinger.
"But is it alive?" exclaimed she again; and the finger, on whichthe gorgeous mystery had alighted, was so tremulous that the butterflywas forced to balance himself with his wings. "Tell me if it be alive,or whether you created it?""Wherefore ask who created it, so it be beautiful?" replied OwenWarland. "Alive? Yes, Annie; it may well be said to possess life,for it has absorbed my own being into itself; and in the secret ofthat butterfly, and in its beauty- which is not merely outward, butdeep as its whole system- is represented the intellect, theimagination, the sensibility, the soul, of an Artist of the Beautiful!
Yes, I created it. But"- and here his countenance somewhat changed-"this butterfly is not now to me what it was when I beheld it afaroff, in the day-dreams of my youth.""Be it what it may, it is a pretty plaything," said the blacksmith,grinning with childlike delight. "I wonder whether it would condescendto alight on such a great clumsy finger as mine? Hold it hither,Annie!"By the artist's direction, Annie touched her finger's tip to thatof her husband; and, after a momentary delay, the butterflyfluttered from one to the other. It preluded a second flight by asimilar, yet not precisely the same waving of wings, as in the firstexperiment. Then ascending from the blacksmith's stalwart finger, itrose in a gradually enlarging curve to the ceiling, made one widesweep around the room, and returned with an undulating movement to thepoint whence it had started.
"Well, that does beat all nature!" cried Robert Danforth, bestowingthe heartiest praise that he could find expression for; and, indeed,had he paused there, a man of finer words and nicer perception couldnot easily have said more. "That goes beyond me, I confess! But whatthen? There is more real use in one downright blow of mysledge-hammer, than in the whole five years' labor that our friendOwen has wasted on this butterfly!"Here the child clapped his hands, and made a great babble ofindistinct utterance, apparently demanding that the butterfly shouldbe given him for a plaything.
Owen Warland, meanwhile, glanced sidelong at Annie, to discoverwhether she sympathized in her husband's estimate of the comparativevalue of the Beautiful and the Practical. There was, amid all herkindness towards himself, amid all the wonder and admiration withwhich she contemplated the marvellous work of his hands, andincarnation of his ideal a secret scorn; too secret, perhaps, forher own consciousness, and perceptible only to such intuitivediscernment as that of the artist. But Owen, in the latter stages ofhis pursuit, had risen out of the region in which such a discoverymight have been torture. He knew that the world, and Annie as therepresentative of the world, whatever praise might be bestowed,could never say the fitting word, nor feel the fitting sentiment whichshould be the perfect recompense of an artist who, symbolizing a loftymoral by a material trifle- converting what was earthly to spiritualgold- had won the Beautiful into his handiwork. Not at this latestmoment was he to learn that the reward of all high performance must besought within itself, or sought in vain. There was, however, a view ofthe matter, which Annie, and her husband, and even Peter Hovenden,might fully have understood, and which would have satisfied themthat the toil of years had here been worthily bestowed. Owen Warlandmight have told them, that this butterfly, this plaything, thisbridal-gift of a poor watchmaker to a blacksmith's wife, was, intruth, a gem of art that a monarch would have purchased with honorsand abundant wealth, and have treasured it among the jewels of hiskingdom, as the most unique and wondrous of them all! But the artistsmiled and kept the secret to himself.
"Father," said Annie, thinking that a word of praise from the oldwatchmaker might gratify his former apprentice, "do come and admirethis pretty butterfly!""Let us see," said Peter Hovenden, rising from his chair, with asneer upon his face that always made people doubt, as he himselfdid, in everything but a material existence. "Here is my finger for itto alight upon. I shall understand it better when once I havetouched it."But, to the increased astonishment of Annie, when the tip of herfather's finger was pressed against that of her husband, on whichthe butterfly still rested, the insect drooped its wings, and seemedon the point of falling to the floor. Even the bright spots of goldupon its wings and body, unless her eyes deceived her, grew dim, andthe glowing purple took a dusky hue, and the starry lustre thatgleamed around the blacksmith's hand became faint, and vanished.
"It is dying! it is dying!" cried Annie, in alarm.
