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save　its　own　small　cravings。　　Pardon　me；　Ik；　I　am　not　speaking　of

your　cousin　but　in　the　abstract。　　In　regard　to　that　young　lady；

as　you　saw；　I　was　very　much　struck　with　the　face。　　Indeed；　to　tell

the　honest　truth；　I　never　saw　so　much　beauty　spoiled　　before；　and

the　fact　has　put　me　in　so　bad　a　humor　that　you；　no　doubt；　are　glad

I　have　reached　my　corner　and　so　must　say　good…night。〃



〃Ida　Mayhew　can　realize　all　such　abstractions；〃　muttered　Ik　Stanton；

as　he　walked　on　alone。



The　reader　will　be　apt　to　surmise；　however；　that　some　resentment；

resulting　from　his　former　and　unrequited　sentiment　towards　the

girl；　gave　an　unjust　bias　to　his　judgement。











Chapter　III。　　An　Artist's　Freak。









Van　Berg's　night…key　admitted　him　to　a　beautiful　home；　which　he

now　had　wholly　to　himself；　since　his　parents　and　sister　had　sailed

for　Europe　early　in　the　spring；　intending　to　spend　the　summer

abroad。　　The　young　man　had　already　travelled　and　studied　for　years

in　the　lands　naturally　attractive　to　an　artist；　and　it　was　now　his

purpose　to　familiarize　himself　more　thoroughly　with　the　scenery　of

his　own　country。



On　reaching　his　own　apartment　he　took　down　a　prosy　book；　that　he

might　read　himself　into　that　condition　of　drowsiness　which　would

render　sleep　possible；　but　sleep　would　not　come；　and　the　sentences

were　like　the　passers…by　in　the　street；　whom　we　see　but　do　not　note；

and　for　whose　coming　and　going　we　know　not　the　reasons。　　Between

himself　and　the　page　he　saw　continually　the　exquisite　features　and

the　exasperating　face　of　Ida　Mayhew。　　At　last　he　threw　aside　the

book；　lighted　a　cigar；　and　gave　himself　up　to　the　reveries　to　which

this　beautiful；　but　discordant　visage　so　strongly　predisposed　him。

Its　perfection　in　one　respect；　its　strongly　marked　imperfection

in　another；　both　appealed　equally　to　his　artistic　and　thoughtful

mind。　　At　one　moment　it　would　appear　before　him　with　an　ideal

loveliness　such　as　had　never　blessed　the　eye　of　his　fancy　even；

but　while　he　yet　looked　the　features　would　distort　themselves　into

the　vivid　expression　of　some　contemptible　trait；　so　like　what　he

had　seen　in　reality；　during　the　evening；　that；　in　uncontrollable

irritation；　he　would　start　up　and　pace　the　floor。



His　uncurbed　imagination　conjured　up　all　kinds　of　weird　and　grotesque

imagery。　　He　found　himself　commiserating　the　girl's　features　as　if

they　were　high…toned　captives　held　in　degrading　bondage　by　a　spiteful

little　monster；　that　delighted　to　put　them　to　low　and　menial　uses。

To　one　of　his　temperament　such　beauty　as　he　had　just　witnessed；

controlled　by；　and　ministering　to；　some　of　the　meanest　and　pettiest

of　human　vices；　was　like　Mary　Magdalene　when　held　in　thraldom　by

seven　devils。



A　cool　and　matter…of…fact　person　could　scarcely　understand　Van

Berg's　annoyance　and　perturbation。　　If　a　true　artist　were　compelled

to　see　before　him　a　portrait　that　required　only　a　few　skillful

touches　in　order　to　become　a　perfect　likeness；　and　yet　could　not

give　those　touches；　the　picture　would　become　a　constant　vexation；

and　the　better　the　picture；　the　nearer　it　approached　the　truth；　the

deeper　would　be　the　irritation　that　all　should　be　spoiled　through

defects　for　which　there　was　no　necessity。



In　the　face　that　persistently　haunted　him　Van　Berg　saw　a　beauty

that　might　fulfil　his　best　ideal；　and　he　also　saw　just　why　it　did

not　and　never　could；　until　its　defects　were　remedied。　　He　felt

a　sense　of　personal　loss　that　he　should　have　discovered　a　gem　so

nearly　perfect　and　yet　marred　by　so　fatal　a　flaw。



The　next　day　it　was　still　the　same。　　The　face　of　Ida　Mayhew　interposed

itself　before　everything　that　he　sought　to　do　or　see。　　Whether　it

were　true　or　not；　it　appeared　to　him　that　in　all　his　wanderings　and

observations　he　had　never　seen　features　so　capable　of　fulfilling

his　highest　conception　of　beauty　did　they　but　express　the　higher

qualities　and　emotions　of　the　soul。　　He　also　felt　that　never

before　had　he　seen　a　face　that　would　seem　to　him　so　hideous　in　its

perversion。



He　threw　down　his　brush　and　palette　in　despair　and　again　gave　himself

up　to　his　fancies。　　He　then　sketched　in　outline　the　beautiful　face

as　expressing　joy；　hope；　courage；　thought　or　love；　but　was　provoked

to　find　that　he　ever　obtained　the　best　likeness　when　portraying

the　vanity；　silliness；　or　petulance　which　had　been　the　only

characteristics　he　had　seen。



He　now　grew　metaphysical　and　tried　to　analyze　the　girl's　mind。

He　sought　to　grope　mentally　his　way　back　into　the　recesses　of　the

soul；　which　had　looked；　acted；　and　spoken　the　previous　evening。

A　strange　little　place　he　imagined　it；　and　oddly　furnished。　　It

occurred　to　him　that　it　bore　a　resemblance　to　her　dressing　room；

and　was　full　of　queer　feminine　mysteries　and　artificial　ideas　that

had　been　created　by　conventional　society　rather　than　inspired　by

nature。



He　asked　himself；　〃Can　it　be　that　here　is　a　character　in　which　the

elements　of　a　true　and　good　woman　do　not　exist？　　Has　she　no　heart；

no　mind；　no　conscience　worthy　of　the　name？　　At　her　age　she　cannot

have　lost　these　qualities。　　Have　they　never　been　awakened？　　Do

they　exist　to　that　degree　that　they　can　be　aroused　into　controlling

activity？　　I　suppose　there　can　be　pretty　idiots。　　As　people　are

born　blind　or　scrofulous；　so　I　suppose　others　can　be　born　devoid　of

heart　or　conscience；　inheriting　from　a　degenerate　ancestry　sundry

mean　and　vile　propensities　in　their　places。　　Human　nature　is

a　scale　that　runs　both　up　and　down；　and　it　is　astonishing　how　far

the　extremes　can　be　apart。〃



〃How　high　is　it　possible　for　the　same　individual　to　rise　in　this

scale？　　I　imagine　we　are　all　prone　to　judge　of　people　as　if　they

were　finished　pictures；　and　to　think　that　the　defects　our　first

scrutiny　discovers　will　remain　for　all　time。　　It　is　in　real　life

much　as　in　fiction。　　From　first　to　last　a　villain　is　a　villain；

as　if　he　had　been　created　one。　　The　heroine　is　a　moss　rose…bud　by

equal　and　unchanging　necessity。　　Is　this　girl　a　fool；　and　will　she

remain　one　by　any　innate　compulsion？　　By　Jove！　　I　would　like　to　see

her　again　in　the　searching　light　of　day。　　I　would　like　to　follow

her　career　sufficiently　long；　to　discover　whether　nature　has　been

guilty　of　the　grotesque　crime　of　associating　inseparably　with　that

fine　form　and　those　exquisite　features；　a　hideous　little　mind　that

must　go　on　intensifying　its　dwarfed　deformity；　until　death　snuffs

it　out。　　If　this　be　true；　the　beautiful　little　monster　that　is

bothering　me　so　suggests　a　knotty　problem　to　wiser　heads　than　mine。〃



Somewhat　later　his　musings　led　him　to　indulge　in　a　broad　laugh。



〃Possibly；〃　he　said　aloud；　〃she　is　a　modern　and　fashionable　Undine；

and　has　never　yet　received　a　woman's　soul。　　The　good　Lord　deliver

me　from　trying　to　awaken　it；　as　did　the　knight　of　old　in　the　story；

by　swelling　the　long　list　of　her　victims。　　I　can　scarcely　imagine

a　more　pitiable　and　abject　creature　than　a　man　（once　sane　and

sensible）　in　thraldom　to　such　a　tantalizing　semblance　of　a　woman。

She　would　no　more　appreciate　his　devotion　than　the　jackdaw　the

pearl　necklace　it　pecked　at。



〃I　fear　my　Undine　theory　won't　answer。　　Stanton　says　she　has　no　heart；

and　her　face　and　manner　confirm　his　words。　　But　now　I　think　of　it；

the　original　Undine　lived　a　long　time　agoin　the　age　of　primeval

simplicity；　when　even　cool…blooded　water　nymphs　had　hearts。　　One

is　induced　to　think；　in　our　age；　that　this　organ　will　eventually

disappear　with　the　other　characteristics　of　ancient　and　undeveloped

man；　and　that　the　brain；　or　what　stands　for　it；　will　become　all　in

all。　　In　the　first　instance　the　woman's　soul　came　in　through　the

heart；　but　I　suppose　that　in　the　case　of　a　modern　Undine　it　could

enter　most　readily　through　the　head。　　I　wonder　if　there　is　something

like　an　unawakened　mind；　sleeping　under　that　broad　low　brow　that

mocks　one　with　its　fair　intellectual　outline。　　I　wonder　if　it

would　be　possible　to　set　her　thinking；　and　so　eventually　render

her　capable　of　receiving　a　woman's　soul。　　As　it　is　now　she　seems

to　possess　only　certain　disagreeable　feminine　propensities。　　One

might　engage　in　such　an　experiment　as　a　philosopher　rather　than　a

lover；　or；　what　is　more　to　my　purpose；　as　an　artist。



〃By　Jove！　I　would　half　like　to　make　the　attempt；　it　would　give　zest

to　one's　summer　vacation。　　Well；　what　is　to　hinder？　　Now　I　think

of　it　she　remarked　that　she　was　to　spend　the　season　at　the　Lake

House；　not　far　from　the　Hudson；　a　place　well　suited　to　my　purposes。

There　are　the　wild　highlands　on　one　side；　and　a　soft　pastoral　country

on　the　other。　　I　could　there　find　abundant　opportunity　for　varied

studies　in　scenery；　and　at　the　same　time　beguile　my　idle　hours　at

the　hotel　with　this　face　of　marvellous　capabilities　and　possibilities。

The　features　already　exist；　and　would　be　beautiful　if　the　girl　were

dead；　and　they　could　be　no　longer　distorted　by　the　small　vices　of

the　spirit　back　of　them。　　They　might　become　transcendently　beautiful；

could　she　in　very　truth　receive　the　soul　of　a　true　and　thoughtful

womana　soul　such　as　makes　my　mother　beautiful　in　her　plain　old

age。



〃I'm　inclined　to　follow　this　odd　fancy。　　That　girl　is　a　'rara

avis'　such　as　has　never　flown　across　my　path　before。　　I　shall　have

a　quarrel　with　nature　all　my　life　if　I　must　believe　she　can　fashion

a　face　capable　of　meaning　so　much　and　yet　actually　meaning　so

little；　and　that　little　disgusting。〃



After　a　few　moments　of　deep　thought；　he　again　started　to　his　feet

and　commenced　pacing　his　studio。



〃Suppose；〃　he　soliloquized；　〃I　attempt　a　novel　bit　of　artistic　work

as　my　summer　recreation。　　Suppose　I　take　the　face　of　this　stranger

instead　of　a　piece　of　canvas　and　try　to　illumine　it　with　thought；

with　womanly　character　and　intelligence。　　If　I　fail；　as　I　probably

shall；　no　harm　will　be　done。　　If　her　silliness　and　vanity　are

ingrained　and　essential　parts　of　her　nature；　s