“Madam，” said the painter， sadly， taking her hand andleading her apart， “in both these pictures I have paintedwhat I saw. The artist—the true artist—must look beneaththe exterior. It is his gift—his proudest， but often amelancholy one—to see the inmost soul， and by a powerindefinable even to himself to make it glow or darkenupon the canvas in glances that express the thought andsentiment of years. Would that I might convince myself oferror in the present instance！”
They had now approached the table， on which wereheads in chalk， hands almost as expressive as ordinaryfaces， ivied church-towers， thatched cottages， old thunderstrickentrees， Oriental and antique costume， and all suchpicturesque vagaries of an artist’s idle moments. Turningthem over with seeming carelessness， a crayon sketch oftwo figures was disclosed.
“If I have failed，” continued he— “if your heart doesnot see itself reflected in your own portrait， if you haveno secret cause to trust my delineation of the other—it isnot yet too late to alter them. I might change the actionof these figures too. But would it influence the event？” Hedirected her notice to the sketch.
A thrill ran through Elinor’s frame； a shriek was uponher lips， but she stifled it with the self-command thatbecomes habitual to all who hide thoughts of fear andanguish within their bosoms. Turning from the table， sheperceived that Walter had advanced near enough to haveseen the sketch， though she could not determine whetherit had caught his eye.
“We will not have the pictures altered，” said she， hastily.
“If mine is sad， I shall but look the gayer for the contrast.”
“Be it so，” answered the painter， bowing. “May your griefsbe such fanciful ones that only your pictures may mourn forthem！ For your joys， may they be true and deep， and paintthemselves upon this lovely face till it quite belie my art！”
After the marriage of Walter and Elinor the picturesformed the two most splendid ornaments of theirabode. They hung side by side， separated by a narrowpanel， appearing to eye each other constantly， yet alwaysreturning the gaze of the spectator. Travelled gentlemenwho professed a knowledge of such subjects reckonedthese among the most admirable specimens of modernportraiture， while common observers compared them withthe originals， feature by feature， and were rapturous inpraise of the likeness. But it was on a third class—neithertravelled connoisseurs nor common observers， but peopleof natural sensibility—that the pictures wrought theirstrongest effect. Such persons might gaze carelessly atfirst， but， becoming interested， would return day after dayand study these painted faces like the pages of a mysticvolume. Walter Ludlow’s portrait attracted their earliestnotice. In the absence of himself and his bride theysometimes disputed as to the expression which the painterhad intended to throw upon the features， all agreeingthat there was a look of earnest import， though no twoexplained it alike. There was less diversity of opinion inregard to Elinor’s picture. They differed， indeed， in theirattempts to estimate the nature and depth of the gloomthat dwelt upon her face， but agreed that it was gloomand alien from the natural temperament of their youthfulfriend. A certain fanciful person announced as the resultof much scrutiny that both these pictures were parts ofone design， and that the melancholy strength of feelingin Elinor’s countenance bore reference to the more vividemotion—or， as he termed it， the wild passion—in thatof Walter. Though unskilled in the art， he even begana sketch in which the action of the two figures was tocorrespond with their mutual expression.
It was whispered among friends that day by day Elinor’sface was assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness whichthreatened soon to render her too true a counterpartof her melancholy picture. Walter， on the other hand，instead of acquiring the vivid look which the painter hadgiven him on the canvas， became reserved and downcast，with no outward flashes of emotion， however it mightbe smouldering within. In course of time Elinor hung agorgeous curtain of purple silk wrought with flowers andfringed with heavy golden tassels before the pictures，under pretence that the dust would tarnish their hues orthe light dim them. It was enough. Her visitors felt thatthe massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn northe portraits mentioned in her presence.
