Under this delicate and powerful influence he sat more erect, and
looked out from his eyes with a glance that took note of what it rested
on. It was not so much that his expression grew more intellectual;
this, though it had its share, was not the most peculiar effect.
Neither was what we call the moral nature so forcibly awakened as to
present itself in remarkable prominence. But a certain fine temper of
being was now not brought out in full relief, but changeably and
imperfectly betrayed, of which it was the function to deal with all
beautiful and enjoyable things. In a character where it should exist
as the chief attribute, it would bestow on its possessor an exquisite
taste, and an enviable susceptibility of happiness. Beauty would be
his life; his aspirations would all tend toward it; and, allowing his
frame and physical organs to be in consonance, his own developments
would likewise be beautiful. Such a man should have nothing to do with
sorrow; nothing with strife; nothing with the martyrdom which, in an
infinite variety of shapes, awaits those who have the heart, and will,
and conscience, to fight a battle with the world. To these heroic
tempers, such martyrdom is the richest meed in the world's gift. To
the individual before us, it could only be a grief, intense in due
proportion with the severity of the infliction. He had no right to be
a martyr; and, beholding him so fit to be happy and so feeble for all
other purposes, a generous, strong, and noble spirit would, methinks,
have been ready to sacrifice what little enjoyment it might have
planned for itself,--it would have flung down the hopes, so paltry in
its regard,--if thereby the wintry blasts of our rude sphere might come
tempered to such a man.
Not to speak it harshly or scornfully, it seemed Clifford's nature to
be a Sybarite. It was perceptible, even there, in the dark old parlor,
in the inevitable polarity with which his eyes were attracted towards
the quivering play of sunbeams through the shadowy foliage. It was
seen in his appreciating notice of the vase of flowers, the scent of
which he inhaled with a zest almost peculiar to a physical organization
so refined that spiritual ingredients are moulded in with it. It was
betrayed in the unconscious smile with which he regarded Phoebe, whose
fresh and maidenly figure was both sunshine and flowers,--their
essence, in a prettier and more agreeable mode of manifestation. Not
less evident was this love and necessity for the Beautiful, in the
instinctive caution with which, even so soon, his eyes turned away from
his hostess, and wandered to any quarter rather than come back. It was
Hepzibah's misfortune,--not Clifford's fault. How could he,--so yellow
as she was, so wrinkled, so sad of mien, with that odd uncouthness of a
turban on her head, and that most perverse of scowls contorting her
brow,--how could he love to gaze at her? But, did he owe her no
affection for so much as she had silently given? He owed her nothing.
A nature like Clifford's can contract no debts of that kind. It is--we
say it without censure, nor in diminution of the claim which it
indefeasibly possesses on beings of another mould--it is always selfish
in its essence; and we must give it leave to be so, and heap up our
heroic and disinterested love upon it so much the more, without a
recompense. Poor Hepzibah knew this truth, or, at least, acted on the
instinct of it. So long estranged from what was lovely as Clifford had
been, she rejoiced--rejoiced, though with a present sigh, and a secret
purpose to shed tears in her own chamber that he had brighter objects
now before his eyes than her aged and uncomely features. They never
possessed a charm; and if they had, the canker of her grief for him
would long since have destroyed it.